I've tried so hard to photograph the weak winter sunlight as it washes in through the french doors in the dining room, barely kissing the dishes and crystal on the shelves with it's icy light. It catches the golden gleam of the dish rims and bounces off the facets of the crystal. All too soon, it is gone. Am I crazy, or is there a promise of spring in it's fickle light? I don't know, but I'd like to think so.
I find winter so hard to take. Some days I feel like a cat, following the sun through the rooms of the house -- morning: the library, afternoon: the dining room or the family room. It also pours in through the kitchen windows in late afternoon, highlighting every single speck of dust. I am not a fervent housekeeper at the best of times and right now, with this raging head cold, the dust is definitely winning. But still, the promise of spring implicit in that glorious light is the best tonic I know. So here I am, surrounded by a mound of dirty tissues and a half-empty cup of tea, dreaming of spring.
Are we there yet?
Edited to add: OK, it's official -- I feel like sh**. Pardon my language, but a sore throat, double earache, and pink eye in both eyes -- yuck! Please forgive me, but I just won't be able to visit all of you for a few days. Looking forward to seeing all of you again when I'm feeling better. -- Mary