February here, and bitter cold. The intermittent sunlight looks pretty, but it doesn't do much to warm anything, and even the kids are tiring of snow and snow and snow again.
It's time to bake comforting things that lift the spirits when you come inside, time for well-stoked fires and hot cuppas cradled over a lap afghan, time to start dreaming of Spring and hoping that what feels like a very far off day will hurry and be here soon.
It's the half-way mark of winter, and the groundhog, damn him, was not kind this year. I tell Bear that my second husband will be Polynesian, and dream of warm waves and air that I can't see my breath in.
Next week I've agreed to give a talk about a hobby of mine, a fact that alternately leaves me excited and nauseous. As much as the women there are friends of mine and would not let me fall on my face (I know this) I still cringe a bit inside at the thought of getting up in front and talking about something near and dear to my heart that I never learned out of books and have learned by trial and error. It's not that I can't talk about photography, it's that I'm not sure I should be teaching about it.
Again, a friendly crowd. But I will disappoint myself if I don't do as well as I think I should.