I cannot take back all the times that I've criticized a native Californian for complaining about what passes for winter here in the Sacramento-San Joaquin Delta. I can only apologize, with the utmost sincerity. My total assimilation extends to my shivering in 40 degrees; wishing that I had a winter coat and wrapping my throat in two layers of wool.
Winter grips my soul as well. I contemplate my seemingly endless failures in the gloom of five a.m., before sunrise seeps over the horizon. On the heels of that dismay come the painful memories of a few betrayals, several from the same quarter, and some undeniably unpleasant encounters. I notice these things more in the throes of January wherever I am. I do not like hot weather but somehow I find it easier to forgive everyone's shortcomings -- including my own -- while wearing light clothing.
A review of the last year discourages me. A commissioned project that had been two years in the making trickled to a dissatisfying end. Permission granted got abused. A few acquaintances tragically died, prompting a reawakening of some unresolved grief.
I want to focus on the successes but what it is, is winter, dragging me down in mind, body, and spirit. My tendency to over-think and linger on clumsy missteps drags me backward. I give better advice than I take. I close my eyes and tell myself, it's just a mood. This too shall pass.
Outside my tiny house, the surviving perfume bush has started its winter bloom. I bought two of them in 2020, during a brief period when stores re-opened before the resurgence of Covid and second lockdown. One of them didn't last that terrible winter. The other still strives to fend off periods of inadvertent negligence. I sense its blooms before I see them when I exit, the strong pleasant fragrance wafting towards me on the morning air. I stand in front of it, studying its delicate flowers and the flotsam and jetsam of my funny little garden. I step away, and continue towards my car, but even I must admit that I feel a little warmer for some reason that I can't quite fathom.
Mugwumpishly tendered,
Corinne Corley
The Missouri Mugwump®
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