I’m not a wintery person.
Summer has my heart, spring has my soul, and autumn, what a feast for the eyes. But I get it, winter is a fact of life. And this year, I’m learning how to love the cold season. Turns out there are small pleasures everywhere. So hey, I’ll share a few:
A morning run
Do you get up? Or lie in bed thinking? Nothing good ever came of the latter, so you do the unthinkable, and peel off the doona. Your bare legs ache for the warmth of two moments ago, but it’s alright, they’ll soon be hugged by your running tights. Off with the pyjama top, and on with a sweat-wicking, hardly-insulating, running shirt. Socks, shoes, arm band, air pods. It’s out the door for you before you change your mind!
And what a morning it is. Six degrees, a faint blue before daybreak, the pink-white magnolia blossoms silhouetting the sky. Passersby approach – a man in a yellow beanie and a whippet in its plaid coat. You smile at them both; they look straight ahead. At eleven kilometres an hour, you can pretend nothing happened. Anyway, the cold stings more than rejection. You can’t feel your nose or your knees. Your feet cramp. Your left air pod goes out. But you know something: It’s better here on the pavement, better here than lying in bed, immobile, thinking one’s way to oblivion.
A bowl of noodles
You’re in a mood. The idea comes to you as the last of your grumpiness fades away. A bowl of Phó! You’ll stir and slurp; it’ll do the trick. You can’t solve all your problems right now but you can get yourself to Marrickville Road. You walk up to your joint, the tang of lime and lemongrass in the air. There’s one table left, the corner one, your favourite. You order, then slip to the bathroom, clearing space for the bowlful of liquid.
Walking back, you see the steam lifting from your table. God bless this restaurant, they never let you down. There’s no time to say grace: Noodle therapy is urgent. The first slurp – mm. Life isn’t so bad. The second slurp – mmm. Life could actually be good. The halfway-through slurp – ahh. Maybe I could solve that problem. You’re getting full but you’re convinced you need it all: the slippery noodle, the salty soup, the soft brisket. It’s coming now, the last slurp. Mmm… Ahh… Mm… Your mood is gone, and all in this post-noodle-soup world is well.
Remembering a wool coat
The day comes. The closet must change. You’ve put it off for long enough, but now it’s May and your ankles are getting cold and your neck seems a little naked. Goodbye linen dress and cotton jacket! You huff and puff as you sort, out with the old, in with the new. There’s no point holding on to summer; you did that all throughout autumn, and look where it got you – ankles like ice blocks and a neck like a pole. Two bags of clothes in, and nothing will cheer you up.
And then… you remember! The saving grace of winter graces: Your wool coat, caramel brown, dry-cleaned last October, hanging at your parents’ place. A day-time quilt for the body and soul. Guaranteed warmth from shoulders to calves. All is right in the world. You’ll stomach July, you might even enjoy June. The cold is necessary, and the cold can be managed.
Driving home at night
Lights strobe in your eyes, reds and whites and greens, many greens if you’re lucky, which you are because it’s 8 pm and people are tucked in their houses. The lower half of the world inside your car drops in temperature. You crank the heat. Hot air blows at your face, does nothing for your feet. Why is it always so uneven? You bet if you had a Tesla you wouldn’t have this problem. You’re singing now, and the addition of warm breath to hot air isn’t ideal. The windscreen fogs. You slip the car a sliver of night air. Cold again. Sigh.
But there’s a warming comfort to this space that’s all yours, dark, moving with you; it keeps you safe from the cool kids on King Street, who flock in fives and sixes, stumbling and laughing. Not hurling ahead in a metal spaceship like you are, taking you from point A to point H – the letter for Home, if you’re so lucky as to have one, which you are.
Staying in
It’s these mysterious nights in, sprinkled over July, that give you back your aliveness. In the safety of the dark, you could be anyone, do anything. The light of reality hasn’t yet illuminated your shortcomings. You read a story, journal, take a bath. You wash the dishes mindfully. You reflect, are inspired. Good or bad doesn’t exist here, everything just is. You boil the kettle. There’s an abundance of quiet.
People somewhere are dancing and drinking, but you’re thrilled by your solitude. Sometimes we want to be seen, other times hidden. You light a candle. You wish you didn’t need permission, but either way, hibernation is permitted, celebrated, by Winter. She slips you her assent: Stay indoors, draw the curtains, turn the heater up high and the lamps down low, and go – go inside yourself.
