The Muted Resolve to Keep Going
an ode to the bleakest month of the year
I’ve softened towards February. Or I should say, February has softened me.
February and I have always struggled to get along. January feels like a fresh start.1 February feels like a sludge of days. I don’t know where they begin or where they end. February seems like the one month that doesn’t have a purpose. It’s just there. A bleak dot on the calendar. A month I get through so I can make it to the other months.
In my corner of the planet, the skies turn gray in February. It’s more than just cloud-cover, it's as though the sky is a cloud, if that makes sense. What is a blue sky? Never heard of her. What are sunsets? I don’t even remember what the sun is. I’ve said it a hundred times and I’ll say it again: it’s not the cold temperatures of winter that get to me, it's the lack of light. And in February it's not just how short the days are, it's that the light is all the same. Flat. One dimensional. Soul-withering. Unvarying from dawn to dusk.
In February I become blind to to all that is bright and flowering. I get spring-amnesia. I despair of the season being anything but winter. I don’t want to sit with the present moment because the present moment actually kind of sucks. All the while, February patiently continues her quiet work. She knows no one likes it, but she also knows someone has to do it.
February nudges you to do the dishes at the end of the day so you’re morning-self can wake up to a tiny victory. February reminds you of that old soup recipe you used to love. February doesn’t admit she’s tired, she declares it without shame. February gets one thing done on her to-do list and celebrates it. February doesn’t earn naps, she just takes them. February doesn’t know if it’s going to rain or snow, she just knows it’s going to be cold so she keeps her wool socks and rainboots handy.
February picks a good tv show and watches it on the same night every week. February drinks a lot of decaffeinated tea. February reads lots of fiction because escaping to new worlds and stories helps a lot. February doesn’t mind the clutter on the counter, the bed, the bathroom sink. She just puts her headphones on and clears off one surface at a time. February moves her body even though she actually really doesn’t want to at all. February is proud of herself for that. February firmly tells you in that ‘close friend’ kind of way that you can be proud of yourself too.
February has just begun and I already feel a bit ragged from what she’s asked of me. I’m still (yes still!) recovering from an upper respiratory infection. The snow finally melted and the sun disappeared right along with it. The children have absolutely no motivation for school and they come by the lack of it honestly. My husband and I feel stuck in a deep rut of repetition perpetuated by the necessities of survival. Bills aren’t going to pay themselves. We haven’t been able to afford a vacation since 2020. We’re not satisfied with our current trajectory and our current trajectory has us so worn down that we can’t even think how to wrench it in another direction.
Maybe February asks us to go gently and we kind of resent her for that. We want to be doing and accomplishing. Maybe February asks us to slow down and that makes us uncomfortable. We’d rather be busy and distracted. Maybe February tells us that being emotionally threadbare and weary is nothing to be ashamed of. She really hopes we’ll start to believe her. Maybe we’ve misunderstood February all this time. February isn’t the month we want, she’s the month we need.
Because sometimes we need to sit with the hard questions and conversations and places in us that we’d rather ignore. We need to wrestle. And sometimes we need to tap out. February gives us room to do both.
Have you ever woken up between the God-forsaken hours of 2am and 4am? It’s torture. You’re not far enough into the night to have gotten enough rest and too far away from the dawn to start the day. Everything is maddeningly still. You know the sun will eventually lighten the sky but that’s hours away. You try to get comfortable enough to fall back asleep. Your brain is already too awake for that. What’s to be done but lie there and wait and think in the lonely desolation before dawn? And it comes (because it always comes). The east turns from slate to silver. The trees silhouette themselves as the world lightens. A crow cackles outside the window. The planet rotates into the embrace of a new day. And because you’ve suffered through the night, you’re drinking it all in with desperate, grateful gulps; the starvation of a sleepless night giving you an empty belly to welcome the feast of the day.
That’s what February feels like.
Spring will come with all her busyness and bright days. Our extra time will be spent mowing the yard, wedding the flower beds, checking the radar for signs of tornadoes. We’ll be going, going, going soon enough. But right now February pats the seat on the couch and asks, “How are you? No, really?” And she isn't in any hurry for you to arrive at the answer.
What is February but the muted resolve to keep going? What is February but the poem we didn’t want to write? What is February but the rain and snow and ice falling, falling, falling and the ground laid bare to receive it all?
And therein lies the softening. I used to feel like February beat me to a pulp. Now I see how she was actually making room for the hardened parts of me to pull apart. After many years of trying, I know steeling myself against winter was never going to work, but easing myself through it just might.
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I wrote my full thoughts on how I feel about January here. I like thinking of the months of the year as having their own distinct personalities and the lessons they can teach us.
This is so good, and exactly what I needed to read. I've really been struggling this February already.
I love this series!!!