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I am having one of those days when joy is not in season, when I cannot imagine how to bring it in from outside the borders of myself. On these days, I try to remember that no tree bears fruit in every season and I am more than the gifts I carry to harvest. That I, too, am more than this barrenness, this rooted freeze, this struggling to coax sprout from seed—though I would not be whole without them. That even evergreens, those pillars of resilience, are built to slough snow when the weight of winter becomes too heavy to shoulder. That even the fallow field is deep in the slow work of stillness, curled up under its blanket of deadfall and decay to turn over questions for nutrients: Is winter a preparing for spring, or spring a preparing for winter? What am I ready to let wither? Why do I need so many words to sprout this simple seed of truth: that rest is not only permitted, but necessary, a season unto itself. I was doing a little mental spring cleaning and feeling guilty about the four-month wait since my last story, so I had this little talk with myself and you are welcome to listen in.
Short story written by Peter Chiykowski
website twitter facebook instagramStory prompt taken from a photo by Daniil Silantev
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