Day 35. Ascending to Imbolc. Sometimes it’s not about Yorkshire puddings
The small human in my life is 5, and has just moved through his first term of school with incredible ease and dedication.
The Christmas holidays ended today, and he was chatting away happily about seeing his friends and learning new phonemes (a phonics thing I’m learning too), all without showing a hint of worry.
And then we popped to see granny and granddad and he had the biggest meltdown about Yorkshire puddings. Seemingly out of nowhere.
These yummy little gravy holders have been a favourite new discovery in roast dinners this holiday, and granddad has generally had a stash of them left over when he’s visited. But not today.
Granddad was taking down the Christmas tree, and there were no Yorkshires left.
It took me a moment to find the words and ask ‘are you feeling sad that Christmas is over?’
And he howled.
Isn’t it strange the ways in which we decide that the things we do for comfort in winter are Christmas things, and once January starts to deepen we mustn’t do those things any more…?
Fairy lights, evergreen plants, warming food, fires, candles… these things are medicine for our winter selves, salves for our souls, but that calendar page turns and we start to feel that Christmas is over, and begin to be austere with ourselves.
Even though I’m not a Christmassy person, this lull period between New Year until about Valentine’s Day can be my toughest time of the year.
The bleakness of this season in the south of Britain can be spectacular in its grey monotony. And I’m learning how to move through it more easefully. How to feel the magic that is dormant rather than absent. How to do my version of hibernation. What salves I can allow myself to hold onto as long as I need them.
I hope that I can help my little human to do that too.
So we had Yorkshire puddings with our dinner tonight and they tasted AMAZING.