Steep Steps of Possibility

January is the month of possibilities. All the holiday glitter and hoop-la have been swept away or carted off to the transfer station. The house breathes again, settles into silence. The snow may fall without a whisper or the trees may clack in the wind, but inside all is snug and quiet as the long stretch of January endures.

January is one of my favorite months. It suits long black dresses and lace-up boots and layered skirts and dreamy introspection. It suits the wing chair that wraps its arms around me, as the gray light swirls in the coffee cup, and I study my old French book and listen to the roar of the furnace, the deep silence in the walls.

This, I tell myself, is a year of possibilities. I will ascend the steep attic steps and round the landing to a fresh version of myself. This is the self that speaks and writes French; that drinks mineral water from a crystal tumbler; that takes afternoon walks and breathes in the white January air like a bracing tonic; that clears away piles of papers and books and sees the open, beckoning surfaces of things; that finds something better to do in the evenings than watch television; that sees her friends more often; that makes good, hot food for dinner; that pays better attention; that sleeps well, plays more, and willingly suspends disbelief at least three times before breakfast.

In January, I believe all of this is entirely within the realm of possibility. I feel that thrilling sense of potential the whole blessed month. Perhaps all beginnings carry the seed of promise: beginnings of friendships, of projects, of plans, of chapters.

January dwells there inside that little seed.