I've been neglectful. The geraniums that should by now be happily temperate in the glasshouse instead hunker soggily in their chilly terracotta pots on the table outside, their leaves left lifeless after the harsh frosts of the past week. A couple still lurk inside; stubborn late flowerers now just dusty and green, pushed high onto shelves some weeks ago and forgotten. I wish I could over-winter myself. Last year was difficult and I've been neglectful of more than just a few plants. So starting up this new year - hefting routines and resolutions into place - feels like physical labour. It feels like hard work.
There is good news. A pair of deep pink cyclamen unexpectedly came back to life, flaring bright in low sunlight and as I write, the room is scented with the incongruous high-summer headiness of white hyacinths. Three swans circle the lake, calming to the eye. Daffodils are now inches through the earth. My son's head reaches my mouth - a kissable height - but he is still light enough to lift into my arms. These necessary dips into reflection precede growth.
I look forward. I hope you fare well into these next new months.