January has been sharp, gritty, it has taken persistence to weather its dark days. Even as they lengthen inch-by-inch, as the world slowly tilts again towards the sun, the darkness seems to stretch, making the days short but the hours long. January is one of those months that you have to dig your heels into, you have to work at it, searching always for signs that the cold, grey days will soon be over, that winter is weakening and the brighter days are fighting to make a return.
I cast my eyes downwards a lot in January, it’s here that you find the life, the first snowdrops tentatively poking through at the very beginning of the month and standing tall and proud by its end. Sweet white heads dipped, their beauty shyly displayed, hearts open for the very first bees and insects braving the cold. In the sunniest spots of the garden is the merest scattering of celandines, their tiny yellow star opening on the brightest days.
The daffodils are shooting at the back of the house, the first buds just beginning to swell, slim pods for now, not swollen enough to burst, waiting in the wings for another few weeks. The tulips too are sending up their first leaves, the bluebells in the woods as well. I issue strict instructions to the boys about where they can and cannot walk, telling them to mind their heavy feet, warning them not to crush the emerging new shoots.
It has been too cold to work in the garden much, the ground frozen around the weeds making them impossible to pull. The air so bitter and the wind so cruel that your joints stiffen at its touch. The sun has been a rare and unreliable visitor, popping briefly in and out, never staying long enough to make a difference to the interminable grey.
Between the icy days it has rained and rained, the ground sodden, squelching underfoot, mud everywhere, making your boots slip and slide. I have watched the weather forecasts, waiting for the temperatures to rise, only for the rain to wash in from heavy skies. There has been a lot of staring at the garden through murky windows, and a fair bit of grumbling when the sunny moments have come when we are obligated to be elsewhere.
My hands itch to be in the earth, I want to start sowing my seeds, but I know it is too early. The days are too cold and too dark. I swaddle my autumn sown seedlings in frost cloth each night and throughout the frozen days sometimes too. Protecting their young leaves from the brutal ice. So instead I plot my summer garden, ordering seeds, imagining beds of flowers to cut stem from, from spring until deep into the autumn.
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