When the Wild Winter Mends us
On letting Winter in, rest as rebellion and the healing power of seasonal mending
The early February fog was heavy over our valley this morning, bringing a deep quiet that settled on me as I braved the chilly outdoor temperatures to feed the chickens. They were very glad to see me, their fluffed up feathers keeping them a good deal cosier than me - my bare feet in unlaced walking boots and my threadbare leggings no protection against biting cold. The kettle is on now, and I've found some handknit, mended to within an inch of their lives, wool socks, a pair of legwarmers I knitted from the yarn I spun in lockdown, a hot water bottle, clad in what was once a felted green wool jumper, and a lap quilt, in rainbow patches, to keep me toasty.
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