This winter has felt especially cold.
By late February, I always find myself restless. It’s too late to cast on a heavy wool sweater — we know this hard winter won’t last forever. And yet it’s hard to feel inspired to knit airy spring tops when frost still rims the mornings.
It’s an in-between season.
The sparkle of Christmas is long gone. But we aren’t yet in the soft greens and open windows of spring. Lent quietly stretches across these weeks — reflective, slightly uncomfortable, asking us to sit still when we’d rather rush ahead.
Even our knitting reflects it.
We hesitate. Do we commit to something warm and weighty, knowing we may not need it for long? Or do we begin something light and hopeful, even while the wind still bites?
This middle space can feel awkward. Unsettled. A little gray around the edges.
And yet, there’s something honest about it.
Not every season is meant for grand beginnings or festive celebration. Some seasons are meant for waiting. For smaller stitches. For patience. For trusting that warmth will come again — slowly, quietly, right on time.
Perhaps that’s why I find myself drawn to warmer landscapes in my imagination this time of year. Places where sunlight lingers a little longer. Where blossoms promise what’s ahead.
In the meantime, we use our imaginations and our creativity to look towards a time and place where the sun will shine and warmth will envelope us.
Blessings, Cindy
To transport yourself instantly to someplace warmer, read my new novel, “Knitting Under the Orange Trees,” now available in both paperback and e-reader editions on Amazon.
Sycamore Cove Knitting 