creative writing, Seasonal, Uncategorized

Warmth in the cold (a tale of comfort)

Autumn is definitely my favourite season. Everything about it screams comfort, and maybe being an Autumn baby helps that. I do, however, find, that through the warmth of the season, I also crave comfort, and when reflecting on this with friends, they agreed with me.

The crave for comfort is something that very much needs to be fulfilled (especially for someone like myself, suffering from mental health issues very much influenced by comfort and such), and comfort is such a vast concept and personal idea that can be changed from minute to minute.

“Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower”

-Albert Comus

What makes you comfortable?

Comfort to me is walking through a mud-trodden woodland area in the autumn sun; sun shining down on your back but still the bitter pinch of cold at your rosy cheeks, almost blue hands, icicle like as your brown boots crunch through the orange and red toned, crisp leaves.

Crisp leaves. There’s something sinister about autumn’s crisp leaves. Lifeless. Lifeless leaves are what they are, but they’re so, so beautiful. Red and yellow leaves are a sign of death, a sign of decay, and the ground waiting to compost what once was. But it’s beautiful. Not death, no, but a rosy red leaf taking it’s resting place on fresh grass, mud, or city concrete symbolises something beyond the concept of the end. A rosy leaf celebrates the life of a plant that once was, it shows that a leaf has had a full season on a healthy tree and it’s time to change has come. And change is what it is. Not only does the decay of summer foliage celebrate the end, but sings to new beginnings. It shows us the life cycle of the beautiful earth we live on and asks us to protect it until the next spring.

Amongst the crisp leaves, conkers lie, ready to be picked up by a child. That child has three hundred and thirty two conkers at home already, but this… this is a special one. All three hundred and thirty three… four… five… Oh put that one down, James! are special. Nostalgia. I remember when I had three hundred and thirty six conkers. Every year. I don’t know what happened to the ones from the year before, they were forgotten. Each, individual, lonely conker forgotten, but none not appreciated.

Comfort to me is kicking off your skin tight boots and collapsing on the sofa for no more than seven minutes, before trudging upstairs to the bathroom. What’s better than flinging yourself in a bath with a seasonal bubble bar, or if i’m lucky, a bubble bar and bath bomb. A long, long soak and maybe, if I have the energy, a little reading session (usually of an old favourite: Something Jane Austen- Pride and Prejudice? Emma? Northanger Abbey’s right for the season) is followed by the engulfment of a huge, fluffy jumper. It’ll probably be yellow, orange, marroon… a colour of that aesthetic.

Comfort is long cuddles with my dogs… Mollie will sit on my collarbone or abdomen, and Louie on my feet, so I don’t have a choice, I can’t move, but they’re just so cute I don’t mind at all. How can you complain about warm puppy hugs when you’re so in love with them? How can you not be in love with them.

Comfort is also snuggling is bed with your significant other, up close so your noses are squidged together, talking or in a comfortable silence. Maybe even watching a film you’d never usually watch. You might feel cold but the emotional warmth shields you from the outer world and you have a distraction from your fears.

Comfort is going home to the city of your heritage, seeing it in the warm colours instead of peppered in flowers. Leaves, everywhere. The red brick buildings of the old mill town, a backdrop to the orange and yellow crisps on tall trees. The cathedral bell ringing. The Scottish £10 note spent on a chai latte from a local business. No chains in sight. The city art a highlight in the cold.

Comfort is chai lattes. Comfort is long phone calls to your best friend in the garden, even if you’re freezing to death. Comfort is heated teddy bears even if you’re an adult. Comfort is dogs you don’t know jumping up at you and the smiles of small children. Comfort is cinnamon, spice and all things nice. Comfort is the music you love on repeat. Comfort is burning candles and insence.

Comfort is the warmth you feel in your heart when it’s cold outside.

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