I have spent most of my day thus far desperately missing sunshine. I cannot even begin to explain how much joy the sun brings me. It was a deceiving day, for as I sat and looked out the window I felt warm rays on my back and gazed in amazement at the lovely sunshine that had previously been hiding who knows where; yet as I stepped outside I felt the cold chill of a manipulative winter frighten my bones and shove me, not so gently, back into the shelter of my home's walls. I stared out the window, endlessly desiring to lay in the sun. My goal was not the summer skin that many desire but to simply be in the warmth, the beauty of sunshine. I wanted nothing more than to feel the joy of summer. But then I realized, the joy of sunshine is not the only thing that makes summer, well, summer; afterall, many people live in paradise and still struggle to find the joy of summer. The joy of summer is carelessness, the carefree nature of unstructured time and self-serving desires. I miss being able to read books I want to read, running through sprinklers. I miss my greenhouse plants, my summer skin filled with freckles, butterflies and making homemade cobbler from peaches I hand-picked in my own backyard. I miss the loveliness of summer. The only remedy I found today was to open my sun exposed window, lay on the hardwood floor of my heated kitchen and bask in the minimal sunshine that escaped through the open frame. January won't get the best of me this time.