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Enforced rest and smells of spring
This week I caught flu for the first time ever and have spent the week in some sort of virus-fuelled parallel universe. Kind of here, but not quite. Wrapped in blankets and accompanied by an emotional-support loo roll to blow my ever-streaming nose. Muscle aches and fatigue reminiscent of the worst days of ME/CFS, a place I never want to go back to. Now, it’s 9 days later and I feel a lot better, but am still totally wiped out, although I managed a very short blim down 50 metres of the canal today (via coffee of course) and also spotted my first ever Gooseanders, so worth the payback of the rest of the day on the sofa.
The new university term started this month and having had robust intentions of sectioning uni time and home time to give my brain some sort of a break, I started the new academic year by returning spectacularly and immediately to the overwork mindset and entirely forgetting any sort of clarity that I gained over the yuletide holiday regarding thinking, processing and general ‘making time for life’ enjoyment. Nope, I was straight back in to that all-consuming, relentless push to do absolutely everything at once, immediately, with no barrier or section in between. But this flu, now I’m somewhat back on this planet, gave me a bit of a break again to remember what I decided to try for myself just a few weeks ago.
So, now I’m feeling slightly better and aiming to get back into the swing of things next week (gently), I breathe out and try again. Stop working at a certain time, unless my brain is on a roll. Have a few little transitions to move from work to home – take my makeup off, have a shower, change clothes, sit outside. Compartmentalising work hours seems to be something I really need to do. I spend all evening picking up uni emails. I don’t need to do that. I’m not even employed. Academia takes a notoriously long time to get anything done, so why am I pushing myself to be always available?
I hate having things waiting that I can just get done quickly. I really, really hate having tasks hanging over me when I can clear them quickly. Even a few hours, trying to prioritise, there’s a push to just deal immediately with everything that I know is quick. Get it out of the way, then I don’t have to spend energy and brain trying to remember multiple things later on. I don’t have to re-gain that momentum a few hours afterwards. I don’t have to re-think about stuff, if I do it in the moment. So that’s why. But I’m tired of it. I forget to live. I forget to exist outside of academia. So maybe there’s another way. There needs to be something softer. The importance needs to be outside of it, not within it.
There is warmth in the sun, a little, this week. A reminder of those things that exist outside of that self-induced panic mode, and a slight warming of my virus-depleted soul, standing liquidly in a sunbeam, eyes closed, hand gripping the doorframe to keep upright. The birdsong is crisper, louder, and a slight scent of spring in the air. Although we have weeks to go yet, there’s a nudge towards brighter days. A pastel orange and pale green on the horizon at 5pm instead of all-consuming darkness. Catkins dangling joyously from hazel branches. Birch seeds pattering on the conservatory roof, loosened by goldfinches, falling to the thick, damp earth.
Today, though, a raincloud covers the valley, pattering fat drops to saturated ground, wrapping thick blankets of cloud around windows, branches and soul, cloying and grey. Houses disappear and that damp stillness pervades. A time of stillness. A time to rest and heal.
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Edges
There is a storm, raging wildly in the south. But here, we are tucked out of the way, sheltered by Pennines and just waiting on the fringes of the swirling cloud of the weather maps. Fat, soft, wet snow is falling quietly, not sticking enough to dull the sound of the main road, but enough to make a solid snowball, scooped from the ground in the dark before the temperature rises.
The breeze is calm, and those flakes heavy around the streetlights. I spot one or two people, who, like me, are framed in yellow window light, wrapped in a blanket, watching, just watching. Snow brings something magical, something primal, if only for a few hours. I watch the flakes fall and fall and fall.
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Permagrey
Each morning the curtains open to a sky painted in a flat monotone, devoid of colour. Grey saturates the days, saturates my breath, my soul. Deep in December, the UK permagrey drains me slowly, steadily, a drip, drip, drip leaching energy, joy, enthusiasm. Day after day after day. They say we moan about the weather here, and it’s true, and honestly, it’s warranted. By the time January and February roll around, the 4 months of successional grey are taking their toll. A glimpse of blue sky sends people into a frenzy. In December, it’s just the beginning, and I’m already desaturated, melting into the pale miasma, where everything is still and dark and boring, and I am boring too.
I read cosy blogs and magazines about hunkering down. Layers of blankets and flickering candles. Dark at 2pm and mugs of hot chocolate. I read about how we should embrace these winter months, how we should be nesting and cosy and warm and full of winter cheer. I watch videos of how to love winter, how to be aesthetic, how to get out in the daylight and make the most of it. I buy candles and arrange them nicely and light them and appreciate their little glow against the all consuming darkness. I wrap up warm and go for a walk and look upwards and see skies usually hidden by summer leaves and then get a coffee and wrap my hands around it and think, oh, this is okay.
But still my soul yearns for summer. For a glimpse of light past early afternoon. For some warmth in the sun. For green leaves and bare feet. For the hum of insects in the background. The endless grey brings cold, damp tendrils into my bones and sets a chill that lasts to April. It’s a long wait. Winter is stasis, longing, muted, gaping. No matter how much I know that this darkness sows seeds to grow come spring, I am not at home in these months. I’m miserable, cold, glaring wishfully at the thin pale sun that only just manages to creep along the top of the garden fence at the height of the day, before falling off below the horizon once more.
I sleep and sleep and sleep. Limbs heavy and weary. Pulled to a sort of half-hibernation, stocked up on crumble and custard, trying to wait it out. Nothing seems so tempting as falling asleep for the next 4 months, awakening with the first scent of hyacinths and fat buzz of bumbles as they emerge looking for food. I could embrace that life quite easily, I think, as I glare balefully at the grey cloud that stretches to the horizon and beyond. Again.
There is beauty in the bare skeletons of the trees, to be sure. The wonder as Jack Frost paints glittering fractals across car roofs. That crisp, deep, inky blackness of a clear winter sky, stars pricked out in diamonds, eons in our eyesight. But I’m a summer child, born in that heady June rush of energy, the longest days and wide expanses of summertime. I need it like oxygen.
I tried to convince myself to be cosy. I tried to embrace the dark nights, the crisp walks, the candles. But forcing didn’t work. It’s okay to grumble at leaden skies. It’s okay to grump around and shiver and narrow my eyes at the weather forecast (spoiler: it’s going to be grey). It’s ok to dedicate an entire blog post to how much you hate winter. Come solstice, I’ll be raising two fingers to the dark half of the year and waiting impatiently for the lengthening days.
Bring on the summer. Eventually….
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Wind in the Chimney
The hollow howl buffeting down the stone chimney tells me the winds have arrived. Ripping the last leaves from thin branches, whipping shadows through the dark windows where moonlight flashes briefly from behind scudding clouds. I love the sound, that almost boom, the dull echo as the air rattles down through the fireplace, squeezing through the grates, whistling and wheezing. That wild energy finding its way into the old house, as always.
There is a background roar down the valley, too. In the inky darkness, that deep, primal rumble as the gale winds career from valley side to valley side, funnelled around slalom corners formed by the hillsides and hitting our house head on. Wild nights. I need this.
I find it easy to slip into that world of deadlines, of work, of the relentless rejection of the academic treadmill. Old habits die hard and patterns repeat, but I can hold myself now, with the help of those around me who remind me that real life isn’t hours on the screen or judgement by unseen peers. It’s this gale, it’s the rain battering the window, its that wild energy finding its way through every crack and hole in old stone. It’s been a hard week for sure, and I feel myself sinking, sleeping, hiding away. But in darkness is always softness, in these four walls is sanctuary, in the out breath is healing and peace and centring. As the gale rages outside, I remember to let that wild wind find its way to me, too.
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Winter, Hibernation and Answers in the Dark
Winter, Hibernation and Answers in the Dark
As the days darken and the leaves fall slowly to the ground, we slow. As those crisp autumn colours mute and fade to that deep brown, tinged with those sparkling diamonds of frost, it is time to settle. As deadlines ramp up before the winter holidays, as shops open longer and fill themselves with bright colours, listen to that quiet pull in the opposite direction. To sit on freezing ground, to breathe in thin, sharp air, and feel the insistent tug towards the dark. Peeling layers away, finding truth hiding in that instinctual part of ourselves, that quiet tide of back and forth, back and forth that roots us with a strength beyond knowledge. To walk the way of the old ones. To let go and wait for the warmth to return, in months ahead, with the deep knowledge that it will, as always. The circle in all. So for now, we still.
The darkness is the beginning and the end. For now, listen and slow and gather the last. The space and silence to review, to bury seeds deep in loam, to breathe out and let go and trust in the future of those small shoots. Be as the trees, letting leaves fall to nourish new growth in spring.
I make tincture from berries gathered in autumn, to see through the darker months. I leave jars of water out in moonlight, and dance in the falling Birch seeds that carpet the ground like snowfall, revelling in the quiet pitter patter as they drop from drooping branches, as my friend Birch settles into winter, too, silver bark echoing the moonlight illuminating the valley. I slow and sleep and settle. It has not always been easy, fighting the unrelenting consumer season, the workload, the part of me that wants to exist solely in the highs of summer. But there are answers in the dark, and to hear them, I must follow those old footprints across frozen moorland, deep into earthy forests where secrets are whispered on the freezing winds.
As the last leaves fall from the trees we live alongside, I know a few things I need to lay down alongside them. To let myself breathe. To loosen the grip on relentless pursuit, and listen instead. To watch, and ask, and hear the answers. To let things just be, to follow curiosity, to accept. And so, I lay these things in the falling leaves, to rot, to transform, to bring nourishment in future times.
So for now, the blog silences as I work on finishing my PhD. To hide and hibernate as a seed in the loam, to return when my brain has capacity. I bury this space, this potential, and wait. Soon, it will grow again. A leaf, to earth, to roots, to those small buds of spring. The wheel will turn.
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Five things to do on a winter’s evening
Five things to do on a winter’s evening
The clocks have gone back, and like many a Brit, I’m a bit discombobulated by the hour’s shift back to GMT. “The nights are pulling in” I mumble to myself way too frequently, drawing the curtains at an uncomfortably early hour.
I’m not a big telly person, although the winter comfort shows are rolling out (Strictly, Bake Off, etc). They’re not really my bag, although give me a documentary about volcanoes or space or a weird plant and I’m happy! My guilty pleasure is Kirsty’s Handmade Christmas. It must be almost time for that to come on again!
I find this time of year is also a perfect time for a bit of reflection, planning ahead for the future, which is also an excuse to find a lovely notebook to do so, and probably a cup of tea, and of course a posh pen, and some biscuits…
Anyway, I digress. Any excuse for a notebook! Yearly review aside, I sometime find the darker evenings a bit cloying. I’m a summer person and although I’m trying hard to enjoy the darker nights as much as the long hot days (can you tell I’m not finding much success?!) I need a bit of a push to find things to do that aren’t zoning out in front of the tv or scrolling on my phone. So, here are five things to do on a winter’s evening, now the darker months are here.
1: Play a board game
Our favourite game at the moment is Lost Cities. It’s a perfect 2 player game, involving some strategy, some luck, and a lot of crossing your fingers! We’ve become quite competitive – and although I invariably lose I really enjoy this game and the artwork on the cards – each ‘colour’ is an adventure, and you complete the adventure by laying down cards in order. The problem being, your competitor may also be trying to go on the same adventure! Great fun, pretty quick to play a round, and seriously addictive.
2: Make an autumn collage
I’ve loved making collages from leaves recently, for no other reason than to just play around with the colours and textures. You can glue them down, or just arrange things in pretty patterns for a mindful way to pass the time. I’ve collected feathers, leaves, twigs, stones, grasses – anything will do! I can spend a good hour or so just arranging things in colour order, or trying to make a picture. I even made a short stop-motion animation with a free app on my phone, called Stop Motion Studio (I think there’s a paid version too, but I just used the free one and it was great!).
Another thing I really enjoy is making collage paper. I use a large sheet of paper, then cover it in bright colours, glitter, paint, crayons, anything. Once it’s dry, I cut it into shapes, and use those for collage. It’s really satisfying to just make a big crazy mess on the paper, then use it later! You could do different themes – make a blue one and a orange or yellow one, then make a beach scene (not strictly an autumn collage, I know) once they’re all dried and cut up. Or green and brown for a forest!
3: Get lost in a book
I’ve been trying to intersperse my university reading with some escapist fiction and have been enjoying V.E Schwab’s The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue as a book that has really transported me to another time and place! I’ve never read V.E Schwab before but am now determined to work my way through all of their books. I challenged myself to try and pick up books in different genres than I am used to reading (love a historical fiction) so am trying out some more sci-fi and fantasy as it’s a genre I’ve never really considered. My brother is big into sci-fi and has recommended some great reads – I particularly enjoyed Neal Stephenson’s ‘Seveneves’, and Adrian Tchaikovsky’s ‘Children of Time’ trilogy. Fully recommend trying a book genre you don’t think you’re into as a way to pass the dark evenings!
4: Try a craft kit
I quite like the idea of trying new things, but without the commitment of having to buy a lot of new materials, or do that thing where I expect to be amazing at something right away and am invariably disappointed when I am not. Trying a craft kit overcomes both of these problems by only giving you what you need for the project, and including instructions to lessen the chances of veering wildly off-piste. Craft kits are a great way to pass some time and end up with something that you’ve made at the end of it – I’ve done a few needlefelt things (the repeated stabbing is rather therapeutic!) and it’s always nice to have that “I made that” feeling.
5: Make a playlist
I LOVE making playlists. If you follow my Spotify, I have a few public ones (I also like making pictures for them) and following the rabbit hole in search of the perfect song is guaranteed to while away the hours. I always end up finding a ‘perfect seam’ of songs (like song mining!) and turning the volume up to dance around like a fool. I think the lure of streaming services is that you can share your playlist pretty much immediately with whoever you want, although the tactile touch of a mixtape or cd is hard to beat (ahhh nostalgia). I spend hours curating playlists, and now you can collaborate on them, that’s a whole new dimension. Just losing yourself in music for a bit, transporting yourself to a memory, a sunny holiday, a night out, your old favourite band, a place in time… the perfect way to spend a cold evening. If you make a playlist I’d love to hear it!
Now the evenings are longer and darker, how you spend them? I’m not a huge fan of autumn or winter – I find the endless UK grey quite challenging, and often end up mindlessly scrolling to just pass the time. Having a set ‘go-to’ list of things to do can help distract me before I fall into the trap of Instagram.
Have you picked up any crafts over the winter months? Do you have a favourite board game? I’d love to hear any recommendations below! 🙂
