'If you want to have a creative output, you need a creative input.' I remember spouting this little gem of wisdom one January while at college to a fellow art student. Truth be told, it was my reasoning behind reaching out for another piece of cake.
The seasonal celebrations are behind us, and, it seems to me, we cannot wait for spring to arrive. The supermarket is full of unnaturally forced daffodils and hyacinths and – God forbid – Easter eggs.
Yet we are still in the middle of winter. And it seems to me that there is a lack of appreciation for it.
I don't believe in dragging yourself out of bed (in the dark!) in order to thrash yourself at the gym, or restricting your diet to kale smoothies in January.
Poor old January, so misunderstood.
This is still the time for dreaming. For inner journeys. For silence in the sparkling darkness. For the quiet kind of magic.
Fiery winter sunsets that blaze behind black, naked trees. Silvery moons riding high through the night. Fireside fairytales. Candles. Heavy, mysterious mists in the mornings. A low-hanging sun, shining with a delicate, pinkish light. Steaming mugs of tea. The gentle unfurling of what we would like to see happening in the months to come.
And yes. Maybe cake.