Seaonal

'Poets are unreliable as a breed.' - Simon Brett, _Waste of A Life_.

I have to leave the house most days for the school run. I struggle to leave the house for anything from mid November until mid/late February. The worst is in January and - inevitably, I will hit a low dip around the end of the month, where everything is too loud, invasive, grating, painful, where I desperateness claw at my diminished live support system (not because of a lack of love, but because the dead have their own lives to lead and I am several time zones removed from majority of 'my people.' 

Recently, I took on a new collection, the physical material of which I don't work on at home. I have a semblance of an office to go to, a house really. 

This move  was strategic. My office host is my children's great-uncle. He offers me luncheon dates, with I happily/gratefully take because it makes me accountable to someone outside myself, and it makes sure I am fed.

Today is the first day it has been warmer to work outside. This in part because the boiler has yet to be repaired in my office space and because I haven't put on a fire. I sit at the picnic table, a golden lab either side. Anchored. 

The lack of sunlight and the residuals of relief and grief, combined with the sheer layered amounts of bureaucracy that life creates exhaustes me most this time of year. It is a low level screeching in the soundscape of my mind and some days, especially when it overlaps with work involving genocide, I tip sideways. I spent Saturday calling people I love, but incoherent. I felt beyond bereft, removed and achingly lonely. It was the lowest I had slipped in several months. 

But today? I left the house. I cleaned. I put on clothes that were ripped or splotched with aborted crafting and DIY exploits. The sun is out. And my tree was happy to see me.