Love List: February

past selves | real attention | the scent of irises

In February the fog came back, in patches, hints and drifts. One evening I stepped into my moonlit garden to a softened sky, darkness muffled by mist. The light from the waxing gibbous moon was muted, her face partially obscured by a moving mist that crept across the town, its gossamer curtains draping the rooftops. Streetlight beams cut triangular tunnels downwards, the glow of lit window squares dotting an eiderdown of misty night. The next day, I woke early to see it, but the mist had melted away into morning.

A week later, spooning porridge into a bowl for my smallest son, I looked out the window to see the hilltop vanished into a cloud of fog. I set off down a sparse lane where fog pressed along field edges and skylarks sang, their unbridled, twirling song spiralling through the thick air. The foggy woods, on the cusp of a new season, were waiting there for me. Alongside the path bluebell leaves emerged and a small, solitary wood anemone bobbed its head: a beacon in the gloom. The air on my face was chill, silvery and damp and I leaned into its touch. To me, February is a liminal time—a transition point between the heavy grey of winter and the luminous green of spring.

Here’s what I’ve been reading and loving this month: