Hello you,
How’ve you been doing this week?
I’ve struggled to be honest. I’m depleted, cranky, sad and want to hide under blankets. I’m pretty sure I’m not alone in this.
My letter this week is mainly for me. I’ve written myself some words of comfort but I’m happy to share here just in case they might bring some comfort to you, too.
I want to hibernate.
Well, not literally because humans can’t. And I don’t think I’d want to lose almost half my year to unconsciousness.
But I very much want to retreat right now.
It’s Friday as I write this. I’m going out tonight. It’ll be brash and glittery and full of people having so much noisy fun. I will throw myself into it as best as I can. I’ll have to dig deep to find my fun. I’ll put mascara on my eyelashes, dark plum on my lips and I’ll dance (I hope).
But I’ll be craving the smell of dried-out logs popping and clicking in the fire. A giant, soft, tasselled tartan blanket around my shoulders. A book that evokes the crunch of leaves and the embrace of safe arms. Perhaps a cup on the stool next to me filled with something hot and mulled.
I just want to be on my own, somewhere soft.
Leave me be and I’ll see you next year, I promise.
I can remember feeling exactly like this at the same time last year, which I’d conveniently forgotten until now.
I should write a reminder in my 2024 diary.
November:
“Don’t book anything in because you won’t want to do it. With love, your intuition.”
My mind is wandering a lot, searching for comforting places to bed down, mentally at least.
One of these places, is a favourite of mine.
Number 13, my grandparents’ house. Phyl and Bill’s. (I know <3)
At this time of year, it’s warm, lamp-lit and quiet. The warmth comes from the coal fire, so it has that pleasing smell I only whiff at theirs. Sometimes Grandad puts a banana skin on it and we listen out for squeaks as it curls up into the flames.
Grandma and Grandad have matching arm chairs with wooden frames and cushions covered in velvety fabric the colour of apple sauce.
From where I’m sitting on the matching sofa opposite, Grandad is in his chair on the left by the thick curtains and Grandma is on the right. Grandad has his nightly glass of whisky on the table in the middle by the phone and pens. They’re sitting and reading in contented silence.
This is where I’d come to hibernate. This is where I feel my shoulders drop.
I’ve not really heard people talk about grief for a place. But I think it’s a real thing. Knowing I can never go back to that seat, to that ambience, to that comfort of number 13 makes my chest ache.
At least I can still go there as much as I wish to, any time, day or night, in my imagination.
It was only bricks and carpets and furniture. But I love that place. I really do.
I loved the people in it. Maybe it was them, really, that made it so cosy and safe.
The silver lining though? I’m writing this, right now, sat in one of those very chairs. Rescued and saved for me during the ‘big clear out’. I love that I don’t know whose chair it is. For me it’s both of theirs. Phyl’s and Bill’s.
Maybe I can’t hibernate at number.13. But if you need me, you can find me wrapped in my dressing gown right here in this chair, dreaming myself there.
Janelle x
Those memories of your grandparents’ house evoke my own. Especially the fire. They always had a fire.
I love that you have one of their chairs. That’s such a wonderful reminder and a way for you to recreate some aspects of your memory of them but in your own home.
Hoping that you had a great time on Friday night, but that you’ve also been able to get some rest time over the weekend too 🧡😌
Beautiful rendering of the heart. I share the desire to hibernate and long for the warm of Alice & Bill’s home, especially because living with them gave me a window into my grandparent’s lives.
I’ve read Wintering by Katherine May for the last couple of years. Monthly chapters reads from September to March. Gets me through.