There’s something about the winter that makes me acutely aware of my loneliness.
I know that spring is supposed to be the time when young people start wishing for love, when in the face of everything renewing and growing they feel life stirring and reach out to each other, but in the spring I can take care of myself. Among the green trees and the smiling crocuses, life itself is enough. I take a deep breath of the warm air and feel the promise of newness. I am connected to everything around me.
In the spring, I am alone, but I am not lonely.
But when the light dims to gray and I walk home in the evenings, my coat pulled tight around me, my shoulders hunched, my hands shoved deep in my pockets, I find I am not enough. I imagine the warmth of someone’s hand instead of the soft wool of my glove, and I walk a little more quickly to get away from the cold breeze of my thoughts.
I let myself into an empty apartment, fill a bowl with food for my cat, curl up with a mug of tea and a familiar book. As I watch the daylight fade too soon, I wish for someone sitting with me, offering a smile and a story. I wish for someone to understand. I pull my blanket more tightly around me and put down the shades.
I once read that we are all looking for someone to be the witness to our lives, to help us find the meaning in our day to day worries and joys and struggles.
In the winter, I am not witness enough.
In the winter, I am alone.