Two trees that have dropped all their leaves stand black, and between them the sun hangs low, breaking through the clouds. The sky spreads from orange into brown, and the two benches on the hill remain as silhouettes, with no one sitting on them. The light looks warm, but the air is probably cold.
Watch a scene like this for a long time and the shoulders come down little by little. The eyes shift their focus from what is near to the distant ridgeline, and the breath drawn in grows longer on its own. The fingertips are still chilled while only one cheek turns lukewarm, a sensation that exists only in winter.
What often settles over the mind while passing through a winter afternoon is haste. The days are short, so it feels as though something more must be done, as though the day must be caught hold of before dark.
By a window or at the mouth of an alley, it is fine to find a place where the light has settled and just stand there for about five minutes. What about closing the eyes slightly and counting only the warmth touching the face. If time spent doing nothing feels wasteful, it is fine to count five breaths and turn back.
The same five minutes carries over to the fingertips folding laundry in the evening. While lining up the corners of a towel, it is fine to glance at whether the back teeth are clenched, at how hard the jaw muscles are. If there is tension, it is enough simply to notice it as it is. Outside the window it is already dark, and the folded pile of clothes is lukewarm, holding a little of the day's sunlight.
The sun will soon go down beyond the ridge, and the benches will be right there tomorrow afternoon as well.
