winter braids and boredom

I sit here with my continual longing for springtime. At least, we have the Chinook arches that blow through the city, allowing us to have a day or two of spring-like warmth. I know, I know, I'm prone to crying out for the season where flowers grow. I mean, more than half of my blog posts talk about the weather, but it is more than the weather which I call out for. 

I want to feel that eternal hope, you know the one — where daylight hours are long with so many wonderful things to do, like sitting underneath the sun and hearing pebbles be whisked away by the creek bed or knowing that the skin of a banjo can be sweetly nourished with bird chatter and dirt from the gardener's hands. I want to take my socks off and feel the soft blades of grass spring about my feet. I don't want to walk into the forest with fear that I may fall on patches of ice or hear the absolute silence that exists only when snow covers the sound. I exist to be more than the lazy bones I wear during winter, I am so much more than who I have been lately.

Before anything else, I am human and although there is so much to see, to read, to know, and to do, boredom has been drifting in and out of the rooms I walk into as if there is a fly buzzing around my ears. I don't know if you get like this too, but I am looking for something I do not yet have. Could it be time spent away? A lifestyle change? Roots planted in something new? What could bring me to this place where boredom does not begin? Sometimes, I wonder if winter always had a way of saying the time is now and yet, I have spent the whole of my life thinking it was springtime and winter was just in the way of my growth — flowers, flowers, warm air, flowers, green grass leading home. I am so content when the garden is growing that I hardly notice how little I may do in the day and I cannot possibly come to think about boredom when the sun is shining and I'm wandering barefoot through the splendor.

The garden is a bright and bountiful thing, but if you cannot have a physical emblem of happiness, you must learn to create it in your own head. I have learned through the years to be really good at making my own happiness without any need for others or what the world expects from me, but as of this winter we're wading through, my skill in the art has diminished so greatly that I'm not sure what to do. Perhaps, for the first time, I have learned to be so busy with music that I have forgotten how to be when there are no gigs nearing. I lived a life before music, and yet a year has passed since I last spent a month without it, so I am rediscovering how I once felt when I was making little money and overthinking what to do with art and life.

It is not yet spring — the time where life seems to flutter like the wings of a butterfly and I am once again who I know myself to be, but a person does grow tired of waiting, so let it be known, tomorrow is a new day and I am going to pause my longing so I can relish in the strange discovery that is being with breath. After all, the banjo strings still ring and the heart still does beat like a tiny but tough drummer rented a home within. The dust circles the windowpane as if to be a reminder of how these rooms will go on when I no longer gather my thoughts here, when I no longer have hands for the holding, or a tongue for the tasting of good things like toasted bread and honey.  

Boredom may furrow a mean brow towards me, but is it really boredom that chases me now?

outfit details: Good Looking Objects earrings, winners blouse, asos butterfly necktie, Montana tack shop boots, oasap skirt

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