Dipped in Red

Dipped in Red

I cling onto the dreamy days of my month-long Scandinavian summer. An August of cold sea swims in the Baltic, ambling through grassy green parks and devouring cardamom buns in the sun. 

I met Sweden in her prime, her summertime. 

Along with my bulky red suitcase, I landed in yet another new country, at the threshold of yet another new month: August. My new home lies in the green suburbs north of Stockholm, a calm neighbourhood nestled in the verdant archipelago. Most days I trace along the same winding path beside the gentle, lapping sea, shaded by a canopy of green-leaved trees, until I reach a small train station. From there, a blue and white train whisks me away to the city of islands, gliding through golf grounds and woodlands home to copious red squirrels, frolicking deer and russet foxes. 

A few weeks after my arrival, I noticed many dried leaves carpeting the pathway below me on my daily walk to the station. These leaves hugged the floor in a way I have not yet seen before here, almost desperate for the ground below to catch them, lovingly, in an embrace. Stripped from their branches, the brave, dried leaves all huddled together as a cooler September breeze readied to part them.

I then noticed green leaves dipped in red. 

The overgrown bush at my university station stop had dense clouds of leaves tinged with a red hue, seemingly submerged in a red paint. I was shocked at this marvel. 

These dewy green leaves now bleed, announcing the birth of a sudden, premature autumn. 

How can the same dewy green leaves that I met and learned to love in all their vibrant, green glory now stand transformed, so drastically, into their opposite of the colour wheel?

Whilst my family and friends in England delight in a hot ‘Indian Summer’ full of sunshine, a Scandinavian autumn dawns at the start of September, somewhat scarily. The red leaves here, at the most northern point I have ever lived, are beautiful yet disarraying. I fear I have time travelled to a new season, ahead of everyone else at home. 

And after such a sunny, yellow summer, have I transitioned into a new colour like the leaves? And, if so, which colour do I now embody in this new season? 

I spent last Friday night dipped in red, under undulating warm strobe lights at a club on Södermalm, carelessly dancing at the big ‘end of summer’ party before the club shuts its doors permanently for wintertime. And when I left, at a ridiculous hour, I spotted tinged red leaves dancing in the wind, flirting away with its gusts. Momentarily, the leaves and I were dipped in a flirty and fiery red. 

This led me to recall Shelia Heti’s Pure Colour, and her absurd transformation into a leaf as her spirit is cast into a tree by the water, a sojourn which helps her process grief. I do not remember much from this novel, nor am I commenting on Heti’s enigmatic retelling of the story of life, but I find her protagonist’s transformation into a leaf rather compelling. 

I too twirled around in the wind, dressed in red light mimicking the leaves’ newly discovered pigmentation. I too changed vibrancy and seeped into many different versions of myself. I too have parted from the familiar branches of home and have travelled far to find my new grounding. 

Upon reflection, I see in these changing leaves something of myself. 

Albeit premature, this red autumn has comforted me beyond words. It will guide me through a palette of colour, from deep, explosive reds to the darker, inevitably muted tones of the cold Scandinavian winter that looms ahead. 

Leaves dipped in red teach acceptance of a new season, surrendering to the stillness, stability and safety where one seems to land. They teach an appreciation of both willing or unwilling cyclic change within nature and oneself. And the root of this change is trusting that green days will come again, whilst treasuring these ephemeral leaves, dipped in a strong red.

September 29, 2026