A love letter to winter.
I gaily (but quietly, I hope) skipped down the stairs at 5:30am this morning. I put on my trainers, I filled up my water bottle. I fumbled around for my house key which, regrettably, is still only attached to one tiny keyring (Lego Voldemort) and slips away from my fingers much too easily, especially when I am wearing a glove.
My eyes flicked mechanically over to the CCTV screen (as it does prior to any time I leave the house, in case there’s a murderer waiting for me) and I immediately did a double take: I could only see a spectral wooosh of blurred white.
I walked back over to the window and peeled aside the netting to find that the street was covered in a thick blanket of fog. Nice, I thought. I checked myself – surely I should have recoiled? Surely I should be grimacing and clutching my chest and saying ‘what is this? I should be asleep. I can’t do it.’? But I wasn’t. There was no plea to return to the warm sanctity of my bed. There was simply alertness in my brain and elation in my heart: I was genuinely happy to be leaving the house. Whilst I have never been one to begrudge the dawn (I’ve always been an early bird, even when it’s dark), I sensed a change from the difficult mornings I had a few weeks ago as my body adjusted. I realised, in the gradual arrival of the end of the year, I had been factory reset to my default setting.
I am, as I admit so often, a very highly strung person. I am constantly stressed out and flustered, I am always one step away from some sort of a breakdown, I always have a million things on my list no matter how many I’ve already ticked off. I cannot relax. It seems like Winter just presses a button in me; there is no external pressure to do this or that, go to places, achieve things. It is acceptable, even encouraged, to stay indoors and watch a film, to sit by the fire, to play board games (but not with me), to eat hearty foods that don’t consist of grains and feta and grapefruit. Potatoes. Pasta. Gravy. Potatoes again. I even indulge in hot chocolate at this time of year, complete with whipped cream and chocolate shavings. Things that were once not “allowed”, because Summer is a season of being more present in the outside world than you are in your own bubble, no longer matter as you retreat back into self. You can do whatever you want that nourishes you.
As I walked down the road, the cold air enveloping my face in an icy embrace, I felt very, very happy. I felt happy to be able to feel the fresh air on my skin, the reddening of my nose; I felt happy to be able to do this brisk walk and still feel warm underneath a coat. My tote bag started to fall down my shoulder. I picked it up once and it protested against the pillowiness of my coat. I realised there was no use fighting it, so I simply let it fall. It’s whatever. I’m chill. I’m having a great time and nothing can bother me. Not even the lady who occupied the entire pavement with her slow toddlers trailing behind her, or the fact that she didn’t even say thank you as I stood there in the cold waiting for them to move.
Now playing: Comfortably Numb – Pink Floyd
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