same but different

Last week I went into London for some work things — I had a meeting in the afternoon and then an event in the evening. Despite some low level period pains and the fact that I could have been doing something more productive, I decided to go into town early to see the Christmas lights. When I got there, parking my car in a very reasonably priced underground carpark (an ideal spot for a murder), I walked from Mayfair, via New Bond Street, to Regent Street, vaguely admiring the clothes and shopping bags of the uber rich, but mostly looking up — at the fading blue sky, darkness creeping forward, and the twinkling lights of London.

I generally find going into London difficult — it triggers my panic attacks and the thought of it, being far from home and somewhere so full of other people, will make me breathless and not want to go. I’ve been feeling pretty good recently though, anxiety wise, and while that’s the case I figure I should embrace it. See the Christmas lights because other years I’ve been too anxious to.

I think what I’m realising more and more — and this is not an original thought — is that every day we feel different. The world looks different, there are yet more (or different) horrors on our news feeds, the sun rises and sets and sometimes it’s beautiful — skies strewn with pink rays — and sometimes it’s a puddle of grey.

Autumn passes so quickly. I love the way the leaves turn at different times. That some are bright yellow, some a deep red and some, valiantly, hold onto their green hues until the last moment, when they fall to the ground and turn to mulch. Over for another year.

This autumn was the first in our new house, in our new village. The centre piece of our living area is the log burner — a non-negotiable when we were looking — and the house has old, thin windows that get misty on the inside. It’s cold, and the cold sometimes makes me grumpy until the very fact of thawing out and warming up makes me happier than I would have been otherwise. The first time we lit the fire and sat it front of it with glasses of red wine and Strictly Come Dancing on the television, it was a nostalgia fest for similar Saturday nights in my childhood home, cosied up on the sofa with the promise of another day with no school. Bliss!

It’s been really fun to experience each new season as it comes, in this new place. But what has felt extra special for me has been how reminiscent it all feels. Fireworks parties on the green, village fairs, trips to London to see the Christmas lights. Deeply nostalgic but new. Seen from a different vantage point. I’m an aunty now — my tiny niece is wearing the same burgundy school uniform I wore. There’s something so sweetly thrilling about feeling like you’re coming home, but creating something totally your own at the same time.

Autumn is almost over. I’ve stared at a lot of trees and held my face up to the November sun. But it’s on its way out. Next weekend I plan to put up our Christmas tree. December is peering over the fence and it’s going to take all our money and heighten every emotion.

As always, when time seems to be passing at such a rate, and diaries fill up and work demands your time and attention, I think it’s more important than ever to slow down a bit. Do the things you need to do, sure, but don’t do more than that. Spend the rest of your time doing things that make you happy, that fill your cup back up.

Today I feel melancholy. And I don’t know quite why. I have an itchy feeling, but on the inside. And I kind of want to cry or scream or just slam a door and then take a nap.

It’s okay. I’m sure it’ll pass. Everything does.