The present moment is the only moment available to us and it is the door to all other moments.

- Thich Nhat hanh

I’m bored of January and, goodness,  I really do wish it was spring.

- Grace Alexander

I am writing about January, but I feel I could reach out and touch February. January feels long but it is never all one thing. The end feels as far from the beginning as June and September.

The start is characterised by an absence, by lack. Of light, of warmth, of fun, of all the things we gave up for new year. (That’s milk for me. I am still grieving.)

This end, the later end, is full of teasing hope. Mornings that lighten before the spaniel’s alarm clock goes off (he is always very very keen to get to the breakfast part of the day). Evenings that don’t feel like they have their origins in the hour just after lunch.

I am writing this standing in the kitchen, with my laptop balanced on a colander, and loaf of sourdough behind me. There is building work going on in the scullery and all the windows and doors are open and I haven’t complained once about the cold. Mostly because I am standing in the kitchen, and even in the deepest of colds, the cooker is a source of great warmth and comfort.

More comfort is brought by a day spent under big blue skies, banging in chestnut posts for the new fencing. January might be the last time that we see the real bones of the garden and I for one relish this opportunity to coppice and to create, the contain and to support.

Another quote. I can resist everything except temptation. We are now so late in the month that I am going to start seed shopping in earnest.