Winter

Winter is by far the oldest of the seasons- Gaston Bachelard 

I'm at my most nostalgic during the winter months. Darkness squeezes out the light from the sky as the cold air sends us inside the house. True, our homes are shelters, but they are also, in the winter especially, spaces of confinement. The freezing temperatures force us behind doors, while the diminished day-light steals our sight and we're made to look elsewhere, sent to search inside ourselves for things to see and do, for outside the world is dim. I find myself thinking back to past winters. As the season brings us indoors, I cannot move forward. I'm compelled to reflect on how the wind whipped my cheek that year, or how I chased a young love through the hard months, only to have her feelings thaw and dry up when the warm weather came. During the winter nature does its best to hold us hostage. We feel safe in the warmth of the home, but we miss the freedom of outside space. Instead of exploring nature, we retreat into the confusing cavern of our minds where memories peak out with glowing eyes, shy, but ready to be seen.