Meltancholy

Trash is strewn across our driveway where it meets the dirt road. Take-out containers, crumpled paper towels, old banana peels that would more properly be in the compost. The trash can itself lies on its side, its heavy black lid splayed open to reveal a pile of white 20-gallon bags, several of them recklessly torn.

The bears–they’re back.

Our first long Vermont winter is over.

For months, I’ve cocooned myself in tea lights and bergamot candles. I’ve slowed my days and luxuriated in early nights, stepping away from my day job as soon as the sun begins to slip behind the mountains and burrowing into bed with a book instead. I’ve welcomed the warmth of my body’s softer contours, fully leaned into hygge, relished the rituals of building a fire each morning and sipping hot chocolate each night.

Now the world wakes again. An incessant drip drip drip from our rooftop as the snow melts reminds me of the countless projects I’d envisioned accomplishing during my restful winter and the scattered half-drafts I produced instead. The daffodil buds are yellowing, their own artistry effortless. Birds trill outside my window at every sunrise, smug in their industriousness.

I gingerly place each piece of trash back in the can and trudge back to the house across our saturated lawn. Inside, I take off my boots. I pick up my notebook and pen. New beginnings await.