Sunrays peak through the layers of mist that cling to the valleys’ mountain edges.
Restless moos of distant cows reach my ears as I stay buried in the layers of comfort.
They are ready for their next patch of grass.
I smell rain, green, and the earthiness of the country air.
I clamber out of bed, rolling my shoulders open after the night spent curled inward.
The cold seeps through the imperfections of the house with the promise of the day.
As dawn breaks through the clouds, a soft glow falls over the valley that seems to dull all sound.
From my viewpoint on the verandah, I can see the wolves awake and playing, relishing the winter months in their long coat.
Their tails wag, as they await their day of possibilities.
With the young seedlings pushing through the soil, I don my layers, gumboots and beanie and head out the door.
The valley welcomes me with its frosty kiss.
Drops of last night’s rainfall from the deepest of green leaves in my garden, and collect in pools of muddy patches that squelch underfoot.
Morning tea in hand, I tend to the plants and speak to it in a hushed whisper, so as not to disturb them in their slumber.
I walk into a new day with the sun.
“I’m here,” it says to me.
As if it’s holding my hand, it invites me into the world with the tenderness of a mother’s touch.
A glistening winter’s day, ripe with life.
Nearly two years ago, while working a tedious hospitality job, I scratched this piece depicting the micromoments of rising on a cool winter’s morning on the farm. It was our first winter. We had no heating (except for a hot water bottle in bed) to keep the fringes of hypothermia at bay. Where we live, we experience extreme temperatures compared to the coastal towns and areas as near as 20km east– meaning summer can be unbearable, and winter unlivable if not prepared.
As I swim, sweat and routinely water my garden now, fighting the urge to get air conditioning (I don’t like artificial air), I find myself in quiet disbelief that this same place will transition to its frosty winter in a few short months. With the change of season, we completely shift the architecture of our days and the rhythm of how we live… and I love to mull over the duality of it, especially at dawn.