My lemon tree hasn't shown any signs of bearing fruit yet. I could worry, but I think instead I'll have faith that somewhere beneath those glossy green leaves, it's biding its time. There will be citrus: bright and cheerful. There will be Meyer lemon cake, and ribbons of tart lemon curd folded into whipped cream and frozen until cold and creamy. There will be lemon vodka cocktails. I'm letting myself be patient. I'm learning to sit with the in-between times, to let go of all or nothing all the time.

I'll keep this brief, because it's cold outside. The window of the living room is ajar and the gusts of air are icy. My wool blanket is helping. (So is the glass of prosecco.) But my bed upstairs is no doubt warmer, and I'll cozily tuck the edges of the comforter around my sock-clad feet.