Is it the white snowy fields, like blank pages spreading out into the distance?
The long, dark nights, the plentiful dream-filled sleep, the emptiness, that suggests some new kind of way of filling up space, a life, the ticking time?
Without a space to breathe and reconsider, it is hard to imagine newness to grow at all. But, on the other hand, without stimulation, discourse, interchange, nothing much will get generated.
In any case, I ordered seeds for the garden: corn and beans and carrots and three kinds of melon and flowers and herbs and beets and squash and pumkins. Way early, I know, but a girl can dream of spring whenever she wants, right?
I think, ultimately, that newness is possible, even unstoppable. Oldness recurs, to be sure. And we can, in many cases, be glad of the comforting, familiar, archetypal patterns. But newness is inevitable, is a feature of what it means to be human, is happening right now. Listen and you will hear it cracking.