At “Lost in Light” in Shoreditch, on the last day of January.
Luke and I have been spending a fair bit of time in a pub that's nowhere near our house. I don't remember how we found it - it's one of those deep neighbourhood pubs far away from any main roads, so it's not a place you wander into at random. It's a traditional city pub with a long brown bar and a resident cat, and it's all very charming. And then there's the fact that every time we've been there, we encounter a regular and their pigeon in its carrier, which is a lot less charming. The creature is revealed as they open the enclosure to pet it - I wish I could call it a dove but that would be a lie. It's definitely a street pigeon, presumably saved from a cat encounter in a back garden and now drafted into this other life, as an avian regular in a London neighbourhood pub. Everything about this pigeon situation is a little bit wrong, but what can you do? The bird was there first, and it's a great winter pub so I guess we're sharing it.
The sun sets at 5pm now, and that extra hour sure hits me where I feel it. I made some notes for February the other day, checking in on my quarterly plans - I pick 12 things to focus on per seasonal quarter. This is less than it may seem as it also includes work, and non-negotiables such as "do enough exercise to keep back from seizing up". I picked up this 12 things system from the Oliver Burkeman book "Four thousand weeks: Time management for mortals", where he argues that if you try and do everything, you just end up flitting from one thing to the next, making no real progress. And the system works - not necessarily because of the 12 things I select, but because I know that I'm not going to do anything else. My February list speaks to my current focus which is to cement recent progress and enjoy it - last year was a lot. I don't have much of a feeling for what this year will be like yet, but that's ok - it doesn't really start until the spring equinox anyway.
But in the background, things are happening. In her book "Turning: A swimming memoir", Jessica J Lee describes how the water changes temperature through the seasons - we may not realise but it’s a constant process: "Turning is perpetual. It points to the wider transformations in the water, as layers below billow and rearrange themselves beneath the surface. Even in winter, the lake is alive beneath the ice."
Winter is a season for rest - for softness and sleep, thinking and dreaming, and letting things take their time. I'm avoiding the news, I can't bear it. Instead I’m focusing on the people and things in front of me. I’m going to the bird pub, sitting in the sparkling lights at immersive gallery shows, and looking at maps and texting with my dad about future trips, in the sun. I'm still eating an orange a day, they're just about hanging on. In the mornings I'm reading my book by the window, setting an alarm for 30 minutes and putting my phone where I can't see it. When it goes off, the caffeine has kicked in and I realise it's not as grey as it was outside anymore. I really don't have a sense of what's coming next, and there’s not much I can do but wait, strange as it feels. Something is happening but I can't see it. It's so subtle it took me a moment to even notice it, but it’s there for sure, turning, ever so slowly.
Writings
Let them eat citrus – but only in winter - The Simple Things
Oranges are for winter only - I will die on this hill! For The Simple Thing's January issue I wrote an essay about how I waited all year for satsumas to return as a kid, eating them like sweets in winter, when they are in season. I still do this. Oranges are one of the best things about winter, bursting to life when most of nature is sleeping. In a season when you have to work a little harder to find the beauty, citrus fruits stand out by being bold, brash and effortless to love.
Readings
For this month's article recommendations from around the internet, head over to Reading List, Doing My Best edition.