The Doldrums of January

When a schoolgirl I remember January as being the s l o w e s t month. There was always the flurry and excitement of a new school year, textbooks, meeting new teachers, the feel of being one year older and in a new grade, a sense of discovery, perhaps. Then from the weeks preceding Halloween to Christmas and New Year’s, time flew. Until January. Gloomy mornings, cold, wet. Either we were stuck inside at recess or forced outdoors to freeze, huddle against the brick wall out of the biting wind. I remember chapped cheeks, wet mittens, the smell of soggy wool.

I look out my window now, at age 65, as the morning yolk of sun cracks the horizon. Slowly. We sit at the end of a calendar page, almost February. Now that I’m older, I have a different perspective on time. It seems to move irretrievably faster. And, January, despite the fact that there is a national holiday now inserted, still is as dull and boring as when I was a child. I’m struggling to find things to write about, the motivation to sit down and write, the “press” of life around me is less defined, more a blurred figure. Last night on my PBS station, I had my choice between recommended shows—a series on the Holocaust, updates on the War in Gaza, something about the struggle for Mariupol in Ukraine, and a show on aging. Why, I wondered existentially, do I even bother?

Then, as I ready for work, pull on pants over my pants before heading out, don an extra hat and thick-as-carpet gloves, open the garage door and straddle my bike for the short commute, I realize there are birds singing and I hear the song the wind makes in the highest boughs of the fir trees across the street, and—

                                                            face a new day.

me, a few years back, while still in Chicago