The Season of Stillness

How to feel warm and at ease with wet socks.

Hi,

How are you this week? Do you feel cosy?

Oak and Birch (1832) by Carl Julius von Leypold (German, 1806–1874)

It’s autumn again, and I find myself dreading the upcoming winter, just as I did last year and the year before.

I’ve spent the past week pondering whether I should stay in Portugal or move elsewhere. I hear the winters here are very wet, windy, and humid, while the houses are poorly insulated and often lack heating. I could move back to Poland, where I’d have to endure freezing temperatures and air pollution, but at least I’d benefit from central heating. Alternatively, I could perhaps move to a warmer country, though I know my health would suffer, as my body doesn’t react well to tropical climates. But in such a place, cold, greyness, and lack of heating wouldn’t be an issue.

I realise that part of me perceives staying in cold, unpleasant weather instead of moving to a warmer place as a defeat, a sign of failure. Many of my friends leave as soon as the weather worsens, spending their winters in the Caribbean, Africa, or Southeast Asia.

I’ve done it once too, when my budget was more generous, and I can’t say I didn’t enjoy the warmth of the sun and the lush greenery of the jungle when I moved to the Dominican Republic in January 2022. Now, with less flexibility, I still try to choose a place where the winter months will be the least bothersome.

All this has me thinking about how winter is just a large, annual representation of the smaller, daily annoyances I constantly try to escape from, always seeking a less gruelling struggle. It’s a tendency as intimate to us as breathing: if we aren’t struggling against something, we’re struggling for something else. In our busyness, we’re often ungenerous with our attention and affection towards what is.

So, I’ve decided to stay in Portugal, at least for now, and use this time as an opportunity to practice two things: equanimity and cosiness.

Easing into cycles

Sometimes, it’s difficult to clearly tell how much of an effort is wholesome, and how much is extra. Perhaps a guiding light could be found in what one of the monks told me during my recent stay at the monastery: “Buddha said that each person needs shelter, clothing, food, medicine in sickness, and ideally some good companionship; the rest is extra.” And that extra often keeps us busy, preventing us from looking directly at what is—and learning to be at ease with it.

Here in Portugal, I live on the coast, in a small but rapidly growing town that used to be a fishing village and has now become one of Europe’s most famous surf spots. This town, due to its geological position, has a distinct microclimate, one that is unfamiliar to me. It will be my first winter here, and I’m still unsure what to expect.

Coming from Poland, my body instinctively anticipates freezing temperatures dropping to -30°C and heaps of snow. Subconsciously, I find myself preparing; my body is accumulating more fat, and mentally I am taking stock of my modest but strategic collection of woollen garments to ensure I’ll be sufficiently wrapped up.

In my case, the extra (resistance to unpleasant weather) was adding unnecessary stress and tension, making it more difficult for me to undertake right action (taking care of what’s in my control), another Buddhist principle that aids us in navigating the confusion of our minds.

The main objective was to find dry, mould-free accommodation within my budget so I could stop worrying about my health and focus on practice, writing, and other work.

Out of all available options, staying in Portugal was still the best choice, since I already have a lovely community here, and importantly, a beautiful and welcoming Buddhist monastery is just a few minutes’ drive away, allowing for frequent meetings with the sangha, consultations with the monks, and attendance at teachings and morning or evening pujas.

If I had accepted sooner that I would have to embrace the unpleasantness of this climate, with its strong winds, pouring rain, and dampness, I’d have spared myself a lot of easily avoidable suffering caused by indecisiveness and 'what ifs.' I’d also have had more mental space to focus on preparation, and I could even have begun enjoying the process much earlier.

Seeking to embrace a more mindful approach in this situation, I turned to Buddhist teachings. Through them, I was reminded that winter is simply part of the cycle of nature. Cold, discomfort, and even darkness are conditions that arise and pass away. It’s not the winter itself that causes suffering, but our attachment to comfort and our aversion to discomfort.

One of the core teachings in Buddhism is the acceptance of impermanence (anicca)—everything changes, including the seasons. By resisting winter, we resist the natural flow of life and set ourselves up for suffering. The First Noble Truth states that suffering (dukkha) is part of life, whether it’s physical discomfort or emotional resistance.

The solution, as I’m sure many of you know, is equanimity. It’s a hard-earned state of mind, and also one that, I find, tends to wobble. It’s manageable to cultivate an equanimous mind when the pressure is relatively low. However, once we’re met with multiple challenges, our minds can become more reactive, trying to cope with increased tension and information overload. Winter presents a wonderful opportunity for us to practise staying calm and balanced in the face of discomfort. By developing inner resilience, we reduce suffering, and that invites a sense of ease.

With the decision to stay in Portugal, a certain sense of ease and slowness spread across my heart. I suspect it is the same kind of quietude that envelops nature around me, which doesn’t resist the processes it is inherently part of, undergoing its transformations with grace and beauty—manifestations of which we appreciate in the way the sunset paints the sky or how the milky veil of mist hovers in the air.

As autumn and winter approach, nature undergoes a quiet transformation.

The air cools and the ground grows colder, signalling the earth to slow its activity. Plants turn inward, their energy conserved beneath the soil. The sap retreats, no longer rushing through the branches, as the trees prepare for their long dormancy. They shed their leaves, painting the landscape in shades of red, orange, and gold before the branches stand bare against the sky. When they fall gently to the earth, they create a soft, decaying carpet that feeds the soil and provides shelter for insects and snails.

Animals sense the shift, too. Birds migrate, flying south in search of temperate lands, while smaller animals prepare for hibernation, building nests and burrows lined with warmth. Frogs, snakes, and turtles seek refuge in the cold, damp ground. Creatures that remain grow thicker coats, preparing to endure the cold.

As the days grow shorter and the pale light of the sun stretches long shadows across the earth, a muted stillness envelops the landscape. Streams and rivers slow, their surfaces beginning to freeze. The earth, once bustling with life and movement, takes on a quieter rhythm, as if holding its breath. The vibrant greens of summer fade to browns and greys, and the sky often wears a heavier, clouded coat.

In this descent into dormancy, life draws inward, conserving energy for the renewal that awaits in spring.

Observing this annual transformation on my daily walks, I realise there’s an invitation for us in it, too. As we spend more time in our homes, trying to protect ourselves from the demanding weather, we can take it as an opportunity to retreat even deeper—into our innermost selves, and enter a period of harvesting, renewal, and energy conservation. That’s what helps me embrace this upcoming season of long evenings and cold, dimly lit mornings.

I can sense a shift within myself (and I wonder if that’s what bears and mice feel when autumn approaches); it’s an eagerness to spend more time in solitude, studying and working, dedicating more of my time to projects and ideas that were sprouting, growing, and blossoming within me over the summer months and are ripening now, ready to be harvested, like early-autumn apples in my family’s home garden.

A friend told me the other day that her plan for long, dark evenings is to learn how to knit. Another friend began an online course and is learning a new profession. Naturally, it seems, we’re being called to withdraw a little, and to focus on ourselves, nurturing, tending, and restoring.

But embracing solitude and the abundance of time that comes with it is not the only way we can respond to the upcoming season of stillness with eagerness rather than dread.

The gift of cosiness

Yesterday, I spoke about those winter matters with a woman I met at a birthday gathering. She’s from England—a country notorious for its damp, soul-drenching weather and ever-present fog. Based on my own ad-hoc research into Portuguese winters, I suspect they may resemble the British ones, a prospect which, having spent a year living in London, does not fill me with excitement. “There are more sunny days here,” she reassured me, “but it can still be very wet and brutally windy.”

We began discussing the strategies people in colder countries use to not only survive but thrive during autumn and winter. After concluding that neither English nor Polish traditions typically offer much beyond wrapping up in endless layers and praying for spring to come, we inevitably turned to the masterful art of cosiness cultivated in the Nordic countries—something both of us experienced during visits to Denmark.

By now, I think most of us are familiar with the concept of hygge, a Danish term that embodies a sense of cosiness, comfort, and well-being. It’s often associated with cosy interiors—soft textiles, candles, warm slippers, and steaming mugs of hot chocolate. All of this sounds delightful, but it can also seem unattainable for many.

In Portugal and Poland, for example, central heating, warm lighting, and luxuriously soft furnishings aren’t a given, and many people have historically had to make do with less. The economic history of these cultures is why, unlike the Norwegians, Swedes, or Danes, they haven’t developed such a rich tradition of material cosiness. For much of their recent past, both countries faced economic hardship, with people focused primarily on meeting their basic needs. In such circumstances, creating an environment full of aesthetic comforts, like scented candles or high-quality woollen blankets, wasn’t accessible to most.

As I reflected on this, though, I began to realise that while the material elements of hygge, might be less present in Poland and Portugal, the core idea is very much alive—only expressed in different, often more modest settings. Cosiness is about far more than things; it can come from our state of being, finding comfort in the company of others or in simple, mindful moments.

At Stacking Stones, I aim to explore practices that are accessible to everyone, regardless of location or budget. So my focus lies on this aspect of cosiness—nurtured through togetherness.

Togetherness, after all, is a much more widespread form of cosiness, but we tend to forget about it as we’re flooded with pictures of aesthetic homes and advertisements convincing us that we cannot enjoy winter without a new blanket or cushions. Gathering with friends and loved ones to share warmth and joy, even in the simplest settings, is something that has long been practised in Poland and remains particularly prevalent in Portugal, especially among the older generations. These communities have kept the value of connection at the heart of their lives, creating a form of cosiness that transcends material comforts. It is also one advised by Buddhist teachings (the good companionship I was told about by the monk).

I still remember the stories my grandma used to tell from her childhood. How they’d gather in the biggest room in the house, near the massive kitchen stove that also served as a bed for the elderly (the only source of heating), and spend long evenings talking, playing, dancing, and listening to music. There would be candles, due to a lack of electricity, but the main source of cosiness came from the hearts of those who gathered in their fluttering light—from hands red from clapping in joy, cheeks hurting from laughter, and bellies filled with a warm meal that was shared among everyone—even in the scarcity of wartime.

I can’t help but think that these moments were rich and luxurious in ways most of us cannot afford today—affluent in time and attention. Even if the neighbour was childless, or the mother from the other side of the village lost her husband in the war, they’d all be invited to share this time and space, to co-create togetherness.

We might not realise it, but through our presence, we offer others the gift of cosiness, just as they share it with us, too.

I look forward to gathering with friends for shared meals, movie nights, reading sessions, board games, and long conversations. When the sun doesn’t keep our bodies warm, we can find warmth in the embrace of others and resupply our stock of endorphins through shared laughter and time.

There’s a lot of warmth accessible to us in this season of cold, and it doesn’t only come from woollen sweaters. Even in solitude, we can find cosiness through the practice of loving-kindness, directing warmth and compassion toward ourselves and others who experience discomfort during the season.

While good housing and clothing are important to keep us safe and warm, let’s not forget the kind of cosiness we can cultivate from within, whether in the companionship of others or in ourselves.

With our hearts filled with light, trusting in the warmth they home, we will find it easier to practise equanimity when our shoes soak through, when the wind hits our faces with a splash of rain, or when we wake up to yet another grey day.

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Dear all,

I’ve found safe and promising accommodation, where I hope to stay for the long term. 

As I mentioned in my previous essay and some of my notes, the struggle to find a place without mould and within my budget was a major factor affecting my ability to keep up with my usual writing and publishing schedule. 

It feels good to know that this challenge may now be behind me. 

I want to thank you for your support, especially those who have chosen to become paid subscribers. Your contributions are now making a significant difference to my monthly budget, allowing me to afford this rental and focus on writing once again.

While you gift me your support, I hope to offer you the gift of cosiness through my words in return.

Wishing you a wonderful week, and sending lots of warmth 🤍

If there’s someone who knows the gentle art of steadiness, it’s certainly stones. I often attend their quiet lectures during my walks. I’m sure much of what I’ve written here is what I’ve learned from them.

A question to you, dear reader:

What makes you feel cosy?