A small essay on seasonal living, and on finding warmth in the weeks between summer and the first fire.
The air is chilly, the sun is dimming and I’m adding on my Hard Rock Café Sint Maarten sweatshirt. It’s not cold enough to fire up the wood stove, but it is too cold for one layer. So I’m accumulating multiple layers and feeling grateful for each one of them.
This is an in-between time. After the wood stove burns down in spring and before we start it again in the fall, there are two stretches when I’m chilly in my corner of the world. I’ll admit I occasionally miss the instant heat of a good hot flash, but those days are behind me.
What I do miss, in this moment, is the fire. I love sitting in front of it, watching the flames dance, or turning my back to it and letting the warmth sink into the bones of my being. Right now I’m longing for that. And it will come. There’s a beauty in the longing, knowing it’ll be met soon enough.
So why haven’t we lit it?
Well, it takes a while for the living room and kitchen to warm up, and by the time they do, it’s 50 or 60 degrees outside and the fire isn’t needed so much. My husband says it isn’t consistently cold enough yet, and he’s not wrong. And I could push it. I haven’t.
And there are the plants. They’re still around the wood stove, in their summer home, waiting to move to the windows for winter. Truthfully, I’m not ready either. I still have basil holding on in the garden – not quite ready to admit that summer has moved on.
So here we are, the two of us, in a gentle standoff with the season.
Meanwhile, I find the warmth where I can. An electric heater under my desk while I write. A hearty soup on the stove, sourdough rising by the light bulb in the oven. And at noon, a mug of coffee outside, my back against the warm side of the house, sun on my face, both hands wrapped around my favorite mug, one I designed. The sun’s warmth is softer now than in summer, as if it’s cooling down too.
The other day, sitting out there with my coffee, I thought of Norway. It was winter, and it was cold, the real kind. An older couple sat on their front stoop, bundled up in their coats and hats, sharing a cup of coffee. They’d found warmth in a hot cup, each other, and a small patch of daylight. We smiled at one another as we walked past. A small moment, and it has stayed with me across the miles.
This week I’m cutting the last of the basil, putting the garden to bed and moving the indoor plants to their winter home. Rain is coming this weekend and temperatures will keep dropping, so I want us ready, should the desire for fire ignite within us both.
Warmly,
Suzanne
Join me as I write about rewilding, embodied living, and the inner work each week on Substack.
If you’re curious about the work behind this season, you’ll find Rewilding Yourself book & Rewilding Field Guide here.
