Lana feels

And so with the uncertainty. Heather stopped me in the kitchen the other day and asked me about... stuff. And I hadn't been thinking about it, about anything. But I couldn't look her in the eye and being H she noticed, and she said that we should talk. Which was welcome, because talking to Heather is great, but I don't want to talk to her when we're worrying about me because... It's February and I hate February. And in February worrying tends to become something that's more valid than I want it to be. My ideal life would be one in which I would spend February hibernating, in transition, weathering the winter-spring shift and flux when the bones of the Goddess creak and the new God is moving through the terrible twos and even at the full moon I feel drained. It's a birthing time, February, a time of hidden fertility and renewal - I know the cows are bawling in the field behind the dorms. But for me it's a time when all I should have to do is sleep and write and snowboard. There should at least be a week out of the month allotted for those purposes. For me to build up my reserves. Winter depletes me, though I love it. I love the starkness of it, the ice on the leafless trees, the way things crunch when I walk on them in the mornings, the way every piece of gravel in the road has a frost coat, the way Sopris looks when it's covered in snow, the way the hills to the west turn into a Christmas card and the hills to the east turn blue. I love the slumbering feeling of the earth, the knowledge that on warm days the bulbs start to think about stirring, the constant sense of waiting for spring, but at the same time it gets on my nerves. Winter is a creative time but not a productive time for me, so for February I grit my teeth and clench my fists and hold on. Dar Williams has the right idea.