Notes from January.

We knew that nothing would change with the turning of a page on the calendar. Deep down, we did know. But, something – that spark of human resilience maybe, operating independently of reason – momentarily tricked us. I’ll admit, it tricked me with the teasing of beginnings, of opportunity and hope.

But it only took five days before we were in yet another lockdown. It wasn’t a surprise, and yet, still it was. But that just seems to be the new way of life these days; full of dichotomy. “I’m fine.” But nothing really is fine, is it? “Am I fine? Maybe I’m not actually fine.” But when all is said and done, I am fine still. Forget the casual platitude and bravado. Just the truth. We are both fine, and not fine. But we know we are lucky.

January is a month that is usually muted, but this one has been more silent and slow than most. As if a thick blanket of snow has fallen over us, silencing everything, all the normal activities that take up our time. Like when sound and colour is muffled, equalising the landscape of our day to day lives.

We’re hibernating, but restless. Not doing anything productive, but not resting or feeling at peace either. It’s a strange kind of limbo; a nothingness. A slow passing of the time.

I walk around the pond. This must be circuit number 5,367,243 over the last year. But don’t let my sarcasm fool you, I am more grateful than I can tell for its familiar friendship. It has been an anchor as our lives have expanded and contracted as restrictions allow. Constant, present. Always offering up something new, for those who have eyes to see – which I sometimes do. Always offering familiarity too; the solid willows, curious coots, there each morning, ready to greet us.

Every morning the pond is the same. And every morning the pond is different. The colours in the sky, the mood, the light. Sometimes the heron lets his presence be known. Sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he swoops a lap of the lake, right in front of your face. Sometimes he watches, aloof and wary.

I know all this – I notice all this – because in October I made a vow to get outside everyday and connect with the natural world around me. I decided to record each day in photographs and a few words, for 100 days. I don’t know why I chose 100, it just seemed like a nice, impressive, round number. But that number doesn’t mean much anymore. I won’t stop when I reach day 100. Getting outside is already just an integral, normal part of my day. I can’t imagine how there was ever a day where I didn’t do it. (But in the depths of lockdown, and the depths of feeling low, there were many days I didn’t.) It’s no longer a goal, it’s just habit. More than habit actually, it’s a necessity.

So, January. You have been hard. But, out of doors, you have also been gentle.