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I still feel pitted, scooped out, but I was just emailing my husband, and I said: You know, I think I see a little shaft of light, a little gleam, catching dust, making things sparkle. It's small, but it's there.

It always seems so strange to me when I feel bowed low like this, when everything is heaviness, heaviness. Part of it is my body's refusal to do what I want it to do, though I'm finding ways to be patient and realize the whole process is important and I need to be present to it and its myriad needs, and part of it is that kind of February slump. I've never been one who is taken with that pink hearted holiday; many of my earliest years with the man who became my husband were spent in the high-panic, high-stress of V-day (producing The Vagina Monologues on college campuses). So to me, February is simply the month before March, which is the month that belongs to my husband and spring break, but also has the honor of being the month where I fear I might explode for all the snow that packs us in. Winter is so ridiculously long in these parts.

One of the practices that has kept me tethered to this earth is making: I've just finished a series of [secret presents] for [someone who reads this blog], and I've found a few sewing projects I might take on over spring break. I've recently been led to the work of Ella Pederson from Amber's oakmoss blog, and I've been oohing and ahhing over her creations and the view of the world from her lens.

I brought a larger [secret present] for [another someone who reads this blog] with me to campus today; it's bulky but still fits in my canvas tote, and once I'm done with essay-writing and intern-duties, I plan to settle into the office's little nook, a wall of bookcases, a low lamp, and a love seat, and knit. Knit and breathe and think about that little ray of sunshine, the thing I pin my hope upon, my hope of getting out of this funk.