Stuck in the mud
It’s well ingrained in us that a new year brings with it a clean slate. That, when the clock ticks over the line to the first of January, we have a chance to start over, turn a page, begin anew.
But as we drew a mark through 2020, a year the whole world was glad to see the back of, it seemed that no one much felt the impetus for an overhaul in quite the time-honoured way.
Wrapped up against the frosty night, we’d ducked down a quiet country lane to meet the new year as it broke over us. A silvered moon, barely on the wane, lit the way, kept our headtorches in our pockets. Deep in a world-to-rights conversation, anxious to put a good spin on a tough year, we heard midnight before we checked the time. The fizzling of fireworks damp-squibbing into nothingness, lost in the fog as soon as they flared to life. In previous years, my phone would have been ablaze with emojis and upbeat well-wishes. But this year, it remained silent.
One week into 2021, the uncertainty still runs deep. If I have a resolution for the year, it’s to keep one constant - to get outside every day - but so far, the weather hasn’t exactly been conducive.
Usually, when it frosts, the whiteout is gone by midday, but this week it’s refused to loosen its hold. Mists have stayed doggedly in place, making the light powdery, uncertain. Plans, once more, are on ice.
The start of the month brought a finger-biting cold. Keep those hands in pockets. Don’t touch anything. The sort that gets to your nose. Cover that up, too. Forces you to bundle scarves around your face to hide your mouth, sink your head into your neck like a bird buries its head into its feathers.
One lunchtime, devotedly traipsing around the woods, I discovered too late that the morning’s meltwater had turned the path to soup. Ankle deep, in inappropriate footwear, the pathetic fallacy, at least, put a smile on my face. I sludged home in heavy, mud-caked boots, suddenly determined to find a positive in the experience and lean into the brutish face of the year.
This weekend, in defiance, we turned our kitchen floor into a potting table. Filled up pots with compost. Dibbed finger holes in the tops and sowed seeds. Stuck in the mud, kept in the dark, these buried treasures will soon come into their own and start to grow.
Who decided January was the best time to herald in a new year? In a couple of months, plant life will start to take centre stage. This year, I’m going to save my celebrations for the spring, welcoming new life as our seedlings break through, glorying as our allotment turns green and the outside world gives way to renewal.