Winter Daily

There is a ritual I perform daily for the three long months of winter. I've only done this for a few years now.

Before, I lived in a place of perpetual summer. A place where the summer sunshine lasted year round. That is, aside from one week where the sweaters would come out until mid-morning, only to be taken off in a fit of panic and sweat before lunchtime and then shoved into backpacks or carted around on our arms for the remaining daytime. At the end of the week, the jumpers were placed back away again and left forgotten for another fifty-one weeks until the next winter season.

Now, I live in an ever-changing landscape where the summer lasts for too long and the winter too. The autumn or fall is so variable that I wonder whether I've gotten my calendar wrong, and the spring is much the same.

It's always surprising to me that the leaves turn orange and fall from the trees. I'm used to ever greens and palm trees, not soggy socks and orange tree scapes.

The fog of winter was the most surprising. Driving to work through the wintry smog wasn't something I'd ever thought of. But still, it glitters silver in the mornings as I sip my tea and stare out across the park close to my house.

On the winter mornings now, which is my ritual for a quarter of the year, I drag myself from my bed, wrap myself in a blanket and take the solemn march to my kitchen.

The kettle is my god and I pray every morning it'll heat the freezing water from the tap quicker. As gods and deities often do, the kettle takes its time, ever a mercurial friend.

Then I turn the coffee machine on, my partner's place of worship, and I shuffle along my morning march. I make it only to the window, to peer out across the foggy land beyond, wondering idly at the crisp orange leaves as I repeat my mantras of the day.

'Only one day left until the weekend, only one day ...'

It's not that I dislike my job. I love it. It fulfils me. But every morning I must recite the same words of encouragement that it's almost over for the week.

Once I have finished my prayer, I start a routine of cleansing and healing. A morning conversation is indeed a central part. My partner and I recite the words like gospel passages to each other.

"Did you sleep well?"

"No, it was far too cold. You?"

"No, too cold. The cat tried to snuggle but I was too restless. Think I kicked her out of bed. Have you seen her?"

We find her laying in the sun from the window. The next stage of the ritual is obviously to stand and admire her. She lays on her back and suns herself peacefully, offering her belly to be rubbed. But when we inevitably bend to pat her, she swipes at our hands and we mumble apologies, appropriately admonished for our blaspheming ways.

The cats' rituals are the parts of the winter ritual reserved for the afternoon for us humans, when I sit in the last remaining light of the sun. I will have to wait until the afternoon.

I wave to my neighbour as I leave. He has told me that he sets his watch by the time I leave in the morning. On cue, I see him glance at his wrist as I climb into my car and flinch at the cold seats.

In the afternoon, much like the cat did in the morning, I close my eyes against the golden rays and breathe them into my skin.

In the morning: the warmth of the tea, and the warmth of the loving ritualistic conversation. But in the afternoon: the warmth of the fading sun. They are enough renew me until the next day, and is the only thing to save me from the winter frost.