On apricity
Thoughts on cold days and unexpected warmth
Hello, friends. Welcome to my January newsletter, For the Noticers. I’m so glad you’re here. Read on for some thoughts about what I’m noticing lately…
We’ve had a cold January here in Boston. I don’t just mean temps in the 30s and 40s; I mean daily highs below freezing, wind chills in the teens, a few nights where the mercury dropped to single digits. Our boiler went kaput a few weeks ago, and I spent three nights at a friend’s house down the street, walking home two or three times a day to check on the space heaters I’d left blasting and the taps I’d left dripping, just in case the pipes froze (they didn’t).
We had a bit of a reprieve this weekend: sunny skies and temps near 40 on Sunday, and a bright blue Monday with calm winds (at least, in the afternoon). Later that night, the winds kicked up again, howling across the harbor near my house, masts clanking in the shipyard just down the hill. It feels colder when all I can hear, even from my cozy studio, is those relentless gusts of icy winter wind.
I keep thinking of E.B. White’s 1943 essay “Cold Weather,” where he writes about “firm, business-like cold that stalked in and took charge” of the Maine hamlet where he lived for many years. Certainly our experience of cold in the city isn’t quite as brutal as White’s; I shivered when I reread that essay this week and he casually mentioned a thermometer reading of 12 below zero. But some of his descriptions ring perfectly true: we, too, have had “clean, hard, purposeful cold, unyielding and unremitting.”
In the midst of all this, we have also had lots of sunshine: clear, rosy mornings and bright blue afternoons, when the bold rays hit your face even as the wind stings your cheeks (and nose, and fingers) red. Sometimes, when I take an afternoon walk around the block or to the post office or down to the harbor, the sun even delivers a bit of warmth along with all that light. And it makes me think of an old but new-to-me word: apricity.
Apricity, says Merriam-Webster, is an archaic word for the warmth of the sun in winter: that surprising sensation when, even through your layers of clothing (and that frigid air), the sun’s heat seeps into your bones. It’s unexpected, and delightful, every time; I’m always surprised by the contrast between the sun’s heat and the ambient cold air, and how the one pushes back against the other, even when it’s 18 degrees. But—equally surprising—those rays can actually melt snow, given enough time and the right conditions. I’ve watched the snow disappear off my back patio and heard chunks of ice fall off my roof even when it was well below freezing, due to that apricity (and the south-facing angle, and maybe a well-placed gust of wind).
I’ve been thinking, too, about metaphorical apricity: surprising warmth that can nourish us in cold, uncertain times.
It’s been a dramatic start to the new administration here in the U.S. My neighborhood of East Boston, full of immigrants, is bracing for raids under new executive orders that seem designed to sow cruelty and confusion. We are afraid for our neighbors, and the students who come to ZUMIX, where I work; even those who are citizens seem unsure that their status will protect them, in these times. We are trying to be thoughtful, to listen to our community, to respond and prepare without knee-jerk reacting. We are trying, always, to be a source of warmth and light for one another; that is what community does, and is.
My friend Mike noted last week that we’re going to need a few things in these times, among them “perseverance, camaraderie, wisdom, community, and defiant joy.” I’ve repeated his words to myself at least a dozen times already. They feel like a mantra, a magic spell, but I know they’re as practical as it gets: boots on the ground, a cup of cold water, a list of helpful resources and a quiet determination to take care of our own. Hope and idealism, yes, but backed up by courage and action.
Those words, and many others I’ve read this week, are a form of apricity: bold, bright rays cutting through the cold and dark to remind us of cheerier days to come. To remind us, as Bishop Mariann Budde did last week, that mercy and compassion are not only possible, but necessary. To remind us that small actions, daily kindnesses, do make a difference. To encourage us to keep going: the sun, however faint and far away, can still have an impact in the dead of winter. And so can we.
New on the blog: a sparkle wrap-up, and will it last? And a winter poem from Nikki Giovanni.
Reading: Amy Lin’s poignant post about losing her home to fire. Anita Diamant on Boston’s monuments. My college friend Dani on how she’s staying sane. Angela Davis on holding onto hope. And a gorgeous essay on ice skating and motherhood.
Watching: The new season of All Creatures Great and Small. Live musical performances by our ZUMIX students. Sparrows and seagulls and mourning doves. And my step, on my morning runs.
Loving: Cozy leg warmers (for warmth and a little ‘80s flair). Sunshine hitting my face (apricity!). Tart clementines and toast with lemon curd. Purple tulips from Brattle Square, and my blooming paperwhites. And several visits to the gorgeous new Lovestruck Books in Harvard Square.
I have never heard that word. I always learn something from you!
What a wonderful word.