neither inspiration, nor perspiration
I’m not a jogger, but if I were, I would jog boldly into the frosty landscape and generate heat and energy within my cells to counter this terrible February indifference. I would shuck off the oppression of the overcast perma-dome above South Bend and feel closer to the remembrance of sun-warmth. But I’m not a jogger, and I also have a baby under my wing all day. I would take her on walks with the stroller, but although I can bundle and protect her core and appendages in warmth, this baby refuses to keep any sort of coverage on her little hands. On another foolish attempt at a winter walk yesterday, she looked down at her red little hands at one point with distress and said, “Cold?” She understands cold but somehow resists the concept of mittens, and chucks them over the side of the stroller each time they are re-applied. The last stressful stretch of the return journey were inevitably spent in tears, screams, arching back, and numb fingers. There will be no more stroller walks until spring, and I am so tired of being inside.
The stagnency of February always frightens me into thinking that I will never feel vibrant or artisticly inspired again. I took the above picture out of Esme’s window yesterday but it was only by a rote effort to capture an image. This tree is one that I see every day. At the beginning of the winter, when it first emerged leafless, I thought it looked charming, dotted as it is with little round, botanical spheres. But now anything I could possibly see out of any of our windows looks banal. My camera felt like led in my hands and the visual world has never seemed less interesting. I don’t like this, so I was aiming to get back some inspiration through perspiration. But even perspiration seems far from me right now, since I can’t find a creative way to exercise with a toddler, and, as aforementioned, I’m not a jogger. So I sit tight through this February. I hope the wheel that turns us into Lent will bring renewed interest.