I Like Me Best in Winter

 I like me best in winter, swathed in layers-- tights, jeans, two different kinds of socks, t-shirts, sweaters, coats, scarves, hats.

I like me best in winter, with something always on my knitting needles and a basket in the living room barely containing a burgeoning crochet project.

I like me best in winter, kitchen counters covered in flour during another disastrous experiment in baking.

I like me best in winter, when softness both of the heart and body are virtues, or at least easily hidden.

I like me best in winter, when snow flurries around my little house and the sound of the freeway hushes. When I can retreat to rest inside with the warm glow of cheap tea lights and yet another episode of Ghost Adventures on TV.

I like me best in winter, when my diet is mostly soup, and the soup is mostly a hodgepodge made from whatever is in the cupboards.

The Magpie by Claude Monet

I like me best in winter, lingering late in bed, the air outside the blankets comfortably uncomfortable, the cold wood floors on my feet a pleasant shock to my body.

I like me best in winter, sporting hats and scarves and strange, tendril-like experiments in yarn, proud to wear things made by my own two hands.

I like me best in winter after the holiday rush has settled, when I can breathe a little easier even though my pants are a little tighter.

I like me best in winter, ambitiously tackling doorstop-sized books, trying to get ahead of my reading list and usually ending up back in a chapter of Harry Potter.

I like me best in winter because I can be at peace, the world quiets down, and there is the privilege and comfort of home to return to, again and again.