In the wake of winter

I can feel the warmth again. The days don’t end in a frantic chase to catch a glimpse of light before it escapes.

The miserable look of the wet fleeces evolves into a show of colour coasts of healthier aspect. The males play wrestling necks. The females eat eagerly to fill their bellies and the ones growing within.

The ground has stopped trying to steal the wellingtons off your feet at each step. The grass has conquered the level of the waves of mud. There’s food again.

Overcoming another winter feels like triumph. A slow and quiet triumph, filled serenity and a stroke of change.

Overcoming another winter feels like a triumph. Not the loud, roaring kind that demands applause, but a slow and quiet triumph that settles gently in every little thing around. After months of  grey skies and shortened dim light, somehow, without realising at what exact point this happened, we are on the other side of winter.

There is a serenity in that realisation. And when the season finally loosens its grip, the change feels almost sacred. The world breathes back to life in soft gestures—buds forming on bare branches, rivers of daffodils along the paths, faint warmth returning to the air, the sun lingering just a little longer in the evening sky.

The triumph becomes clear. We endured winter. We weirdly emerge steadier and renewed, carrying with us the gentle promise that change, however slow, leads us to renewed strengths.