It’s winter, even here, where visitors come because they think we don’t have winter. It’s merely chill here, true, not bitter cold, but the short days and occasional gray skies tell me it’s December, even as our temperatures continue reaching 70F/20C.
And because it’s winter, I don’t want to work. I want to curl up beneath blankets, and read books, and make tea, and bake bread and cookies, and gather to tell stories against the dark.
I think I should try to make time for these things, this winter, whatever else there may be on my list of things to get done.