January is often considered the longest month and most would agree it can feel like a bit of a slog; we’re coming down from the highs of Christmas, the nights are long and dark and Spring still feels like a world away. Though I’ve felt it slightly differently this year. I’ve been waiting for the cold to come and to be honest I’m still waiting. It’s almost caught me off guard, there was barely a bleak moment as bulbs began to spring from the earth so early I felt anxious for them, like children without their hats and coats, “oh gosh the frost will get you when it comes” I worried, but I needn’t, because it didn’t, and it still hasn’t. We’ve had the odd chilly day and it’s felt like a novelty. I’ve taken every opportunity to crunch across crisp frozen fields with Pip, admire crystal encrusted leaves and watch my breath condense into clouds, but they’ve been so few and far between here in North Wiltshire. I will miss a cold, silver rime coloured countryside should they slowly slip away. Only time will tell, a thought that could easily contribute to the low mood that we so often project upon January.
Candlemas is now behind us and the milky white droplets of Galanthus herald the start of a new season. Crocus follow shortly after, along with the revamp of rigid hazel catkins into soft, caterpillar-like tassels. There is a walk local to me through a sliver of ancient woodland that is my favourite when the fluffy white hazel pollen is released. It coats the narrow track and surrounding vegetation through the wood creating a mock snow that sticks to Pip, transforming her from a little black lurcher into a raggedy white lamb, and the woodland itself becomes the setting for a Grimm fairy tale, spooky and ethereal.
This happens around the time of the spring equinox, (although it’ll vary depending on where on the map you are) and marks a moment of balance between light and dark, when day and night finally become equal length. It is a reassuring reminder of nature’s enduring power.
As tough as you may find the first months of the new year, you cannot rush through them. This is a time for slow preparation, a gentle awakening. If we’re able to align ourselves with the season, we learn that slowing down and resting is the most productive thing you can do. Because it’s within that fertile darkness, beneath their earthy eiderdown, the bulbs we planted with hope last autumn start to emerge
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