I don’t care what the calendar says, February is the longest month. My daughter says she’s glad that the 438 days of January are over. I didn’t remind her that there are still 645 days left till spring, but I did ask her to shoot that groundhog if he sticks his head up again. Not an idle threat—most of the women in my family pack heat. She gets it. She gave me the sign on my fridge that says, “I’m sorry for the things I said when it was winter.”
My head isn’t in a good space, which is silly. I no longer have to deal with a hard water problem in stock tanks, blast through snowdrifts to feed cattle, or sort recalcitrant bovines in a 40 m p h wind. Additionally, we’ve had an open winter so far, but that causes drought concerns. (There I go again, falling into what if…)
I know that negative mindset is always a choice I make, but that knowledge only makes me ashamed to keep diving into the depths. Author Karen Casey advises those of us who struggle with winter depression to make a space for hope. What that looks like is an individual matter but she makes two strong recommendations. Put aside all judgement about the situation, and practice gratitude.
I’m wired to be judgmental. Not about people; for the most part I’m content to live and let live. Situations, weather, plans gone awry; those are another matter. This area takes constant work. Gratitude is easier—my routine is to write 5 things night and morning that I’m grateful for, and it has to be something I didn’t control. Better plan would be to write a “grateful” every time I judge a situation to be not to my liking.
My space for hope is limited to random moments. I need to take more opportunities during the day to offer thanks, whether to the person who held a door, my husband, for loading the wood box, or God, for providing sunshine and birds at the feeder.
Yesterday was bitter and windy. The sun peeked through occasionally but my mind was on the clouds and wind. Looking out to evaluate the day, I noticed one tiny sparkle on a weed in the yard. Went off to refill my coffee, intending to sit and ponder that bit of hope, but on my return the light had changed and the sparkle was gone.
There was my sign, if I chose to read it. A space for hope means attending to what is present. And probably saying thank you. It would behoove me to carry that gratitude list in a pocket all day rather than leaving it in a journal. That might well be the key to getting over myself.
Meet me here next week and meanwhile do your best. Somebody, even you, might like it.