The woods outside my window are gray this morning, enveloped in thick, low hanging clouds. The skeletal trees, bare of leaves, look ghostly in the mist.
If it were colder, I'd say the sky looks snowy, but it's too warm for snow. A few of my bedraggled, black eyes Susans are still trying to bloom and the other night, Bob said, incredulously, "I hear spring peepers."
The unnaturally warm weather doesn't make for a very Christmasy mood either. Still, I've half heartedly hung Christmas lights in the living room. I do love the cozy aura they lend the room late at night when I sit on the couch by myself, with a mug of hot chocolate or Tension Tamer tea, trying to trick myself into believing I'm sleepy so I can go wallow wide eyed in the bed for a few hours.
Christmas lights at home
As I get older, I sleep less and less. From what I read, that's normal for people my age. Maybe it's Mother Nature's gift, her way of elongating time even as time grows shorter.
Lately, I've been feeling guilty about the considerable time I'm wasting, however. I can't seem to get in the mood to write, compose, record, sweep the kitchen floor, wash and dry a rag of laundry, or even take a walk. I'm about as listless as a hibernating bear.
I once read that some of the native American tribes venerated bears in part because they freely move between the unconscious (hibernating) and conscious (active) states. I also recall reading that female bears give birth and nurse their cubs while in their winter torpor.
I hope that, figuratively speaking, on a subconscious level, I'm nursing some new, creative project while I schlep my listless self through what is turning out to be a near catatonic December. When I'm not creatively occupied and productive, whether spinning straw into gold or making chicken salad out of chicken shit, I feel useless and guilty for just taking up space.
Meanwhile, here are a couple of links to the album, titled Appalachian Christmas by Dogwood Daughter, I put out last year. It's a good one, if I do say so myself. Streaming on Spotify.
As always, if you find anything you like (or makes you cuss) at Dogwood Daughter, please do me the favor of telling other folks about it. I have no advertising budget, just word of mouth from kind folks like you.
Thanks. Be Well and Good Luck,