Hello, Lavenders,
How was your day? Mine felt… heavy.
The weather here is bitter—my hands feel like popsicles. Winter has this weird way of making everything feel colder—not just your body, but the whole world. The days are super short now. The sun, weary of its duty, slips away before the evening settles. I wish I could blame the weather for how I feel. It would be easier to say it’s the snow, or the grey sky, or the chill in the air. But grief doesn’t care about the weather. It exists outside time, outside everything.
This morning, my high school teacher passed away. Just like that. One moment she was here, and the next, she wasn’t. Loss doesn’t knock. It doesn’t ask if it’s a good time. It just arrives, like a shadow spilling across the floor, leaving you to figure out how to live in the emptiness it creates. There aren’t any words for this kind of silence. I’ve tried to find them, but they don’t exist. So instead, I’ll leave you with a poem. Not to fix anything—because nothing can—but to remind you (and me) that even on the darkest nights, when you can’t see the stars, they’re still there, waiting for you to find them again.
Winter bites.
It starts with your hands,
The cold sinking into your fingers
Until they feel like someone else’s.
Then your toes, your ears,
And somehow your heart.
It hurts.
The kind of hurt that’s sharp and hollow,
A pain that pretends it belongs there.
The wind doesn’t care who you are.
It finds the cracks in your coat,
The spaces where warmth hides,
And pulls it out like a thief.
But then—
Someone lights a fire,
Or hands you a cup of sun.
You gather, close enough to see
The flush in someone else’s cheeks,
To hear them smile.
And it doesn’t feel like fighting anymore.
The cold is still there,
But it stays outside.
Inside, you remember
That warmth isn’t just heat.
It’s hands.
It’s voices.
It’s not being alone.
Thank you for being here in my lavender fields.
God bless and goodbye!
~Rue
Rue 
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