This winter was cold enough to crack the stars, swirl crystal dust all over blue sunsets and plant ice rainbows in the middle of a frozen sea.
My first coaching clients patiently endured my attempts to help. A well-worn copy of Non-Violent Communication turned my worldview upside down. Among my mother's clothes, I found 14 berets. Something pulled me into church on Sundays.
Accordion music reverbated through my senses at a community Christmas party. A trip to Umeå soaked me in rain, greyness, books, deep conversations with my best friend, trendy food, strange art, the Swedish language and an involuntary bus tour through all the suburbs.
I dived desperately into a week's Christmas holiday, celebrated two shining family dinners, had champagne on New Year's Eve. Snow covered the rest of the season. I froze my toes at a graffiti exhibition in an abandoned railway warehouse in the depth of winter. Qvevri wine with a hearty Georgian meal warmed me up, as well as a noisy pub night with friends.
The Olympic Games convinced me that ice-skaters are the most impressive athletes. A rereading of my favourite crime writer got me through February and a consultation with my coaching teacher got me through my own doubts.
I emerge out of another winter, as always bleary-eyed and surprised. The cold melts under a rosy sun.
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