As we shuffle through February, we enter the closing chapter of The Ghosts of Winter. A strange, liminal stretch where the season feels neither fully alive nor truly dying. Winter’s thinning, but spring hasn’t found its voice. The light’s returning, but slowly. Somewhat reluctantly. And in this pause, this breath between seasons, something happens. The unfinished parts of our lives rise to the surface.
Not loudly or violently. Just… there. As soft as a shadow. As persistent as a memory.
February is the month of unfinished business. The conversations we avoided. The decisions we deferred until ‘after the new year’. The grief we didn’t fully acknowledge. The dream we promised we’d chase, but didn’t. The instinct we ignored. The person we once were, waiting to be reconciled.
These are February’s ghosts. Not only the spirits of folklore, but the ghosts of ourselves.
We rush into January with intention – plans, lists and resolve. Then February arrives, understated, pale and unassuming. And it undoes us in gentler ways.
It’s still dark, we’re tired, oh so tired, and the year hasn’t unfolded enough to distract us yet.
Every ghost of winter has taught us something. December taught us remembrance. January taught us thresholds. And February teaches us closure.
Turn towards what’s been haunting you and acknowledge the memory – or face the unfinished story. Let the ghosts speak.
Only then can winter loosen its hold.
And only then can spring cross the threshold.
R. H. DIXON 