The Gray Time

The Gray Time: this is how I think of January. A time of wan sun through half-hearted clouds, a time of muted colors. It’s rare to see snow here in the southern hills of the Piedmont, although it’s cold enough that nature lies dormant – dry, yellow grass, russet brown leaves decaying to a black carpet on the ground, even the evergreens dull and dusky in the muffled light. Resolutions made at the bright and shiny end of the old year struggle to retain meaning and momentum in the swaddling, all-encompassing gray of seemingly endless January days. January is a month to seek comfort – in homemade soups, hot coffee, and the incongruous red splash of a cardinal at the bird feeder; a time for sleeping, but a time for dreaming too. Without the gray time, spring would lose its wonder. Modern psychology might label it seasonal affective disorder and seek to cure it with artificial sunlight, but sometimes it’s okay to be sad – if you know that it’s passing. The gray time is a time to take a deep breath and reflect. And maybe to look for the beauty waiting, curled and dreaming, beneath the gray skies.