I’m wearing layer upon layer. Wool underneath. My hands are cold and so is my nose. I’m sneezing, often. I embrace my scarves, or they embrace me, on a daily basis, and hours every day. Winter is coming.
I’ve gone back to uni for another year while staying at home with Daughter for another year and for six weeks I’m working in a lower secondary school. I think refreshing has to be the right word to describe it. My mind is turned on again. I get to be myself outside the house without having my supernatural mother-power turned on constantly. I also have a very decent-length walk to get to work (although I often use the car) and I get to walk in silence and solitude with the brisk, cold air twirling around me harmfully caressing my bare cheeks.
The season is changing and the weather is protesting violently. The sunrise is bright pink and orange and the sky has just changed to a bleak blue before heavy grey clouds cover it up and drench themselves of bucketloads of water. The sun sets before, surprisingly early, and earlier every day and gives way to howling winds and thundering clouds.
The colours, the changes and the heavy dose of new impressions made by the young hopeful are making me feel poetic. I feel like I should find somewhere to sitsurrounded by the cold air and amid the magic colour combinations and pour all these feelings into words. But it’s been done before, and I don’t really have the time. But I breathe it all in: fill my head with the bright pink and soothing green, the surrendering orange and daunting red; fill my lungs with the cold; and push the darkness out of the corners of our house with candles burning with mellow yellow flames.