February Uncertain

February feels uncertain.

The other night I sat on my couch and watched Buddhist monks journey across the U.S. on foot, sending messages of peace with bits of colored string to tie on wrists, like the most precious bracelets. People offered flowers. People cried. I cried too, right there on my couch, just broke open.

Devastating, how beautiful simple grace can be. Devastating, how the quiet act of choosing peace can move you to deep emotion, especially after months of rage we’ve all felt and witnessed. February feels raw to me. Unfinished. Ragged in its unwillingness to be what we want it to be. Peaceful?

Dried pink rose petals I saved from faded summer blooms, when the air was soft and fragrant. Lavender blossoms gifted by the sweetest neighbors up my street. Crushed red raspberry leaf to soothe what feels tender. Chamomile flowers that smell like warm, dry hay. Bitter nettles, because that seems right. Milky oat tops that taste like fresh grass, meant to calm frazzled nerves.

The ritual helps. A steeped elixir. A witchy brew, if you will. I swirl in honey and too much milk to make something sweet enough to hold. I’m hoping to tamp down the sharp edges. I’m wishing for soft slumber. I want rest so I can continue to stand up to the rest of February.

March is coming, curled underground, budding, almost ready to burst open. It will almost surely arrive with its own drama.

That old Jagged Little Pill era insistence keeps repeating: “All I really want is some peace, man.” Common ground. A clean signal. Comfort. Hands untied. Justice. Not in a hashtag way. In a body-that-can-sleep way.

Will that all be in a cup of tea before bed? No. But it’s what I’ve got.

Tomorrow will still be February, and we will keep fighting. (also, fuck ice!)