February is a month of thresholds. The earth is still held in winter’s grip, but the light is unmistakably returning. Days stretch by minutes, a shy lengthening, and occasionally, on those rare, crystalline afternoons like the ones we had a couple of weeks ago, the sun breaks through and offers something almost startling: a moment of warmth in the cold.
As regular readers know I’m a sucker for an unusual word, especially old ones which have fallen out of use, and I came across one such just this past week.
Apricity means the warmth of the sun in winter.
It first appeared in the 1620s, likely derived from the Latin verb apricari, meaning “to bask in the sun.” The same Latin root also gives us apricus, meaning “sunny” or “warmed by the sun.” From this root, English formed apricity; a word that flickered into use for a century or two before fading into poetic obscurity.
In essence, apricity describes a gentle, unexpected gift: the way the sun can land on your skin in the cold months and momentarily transform a harsh landscape into something quietly hopeful. It is a word that wraps meteorology in emotion, suggesting not just temperature but soothing relief, renewal, and quiet joy.
It is hard to imagine a better metaphor for the work of social care and the people who deliver it. In a season defined by scarcity, strain, and austerity; in turn a financial winter, emotional winter, political winter – at such a time as we are currently enduring – carers bring warmth that feels improbable, generous, life‑altering.
In the world of social care, apricity appears not as meteorology but as presence.
It is the warmth of the support worker who arrives with humour in their voice despite a long shift.
It is the quiet companionship offered to someone who fears the night.
It is the patience needed to listen, to really listen, when the world moves too quickly for those who can no longer keep pace.
Apricity is found in the everyday: a hand steadying someone’s steps; a cup of tea made just the way they like it; the way a carer remembers their stories, their rhythms, their personhood.
All too sadly these acts do not melt the snows of bureaucracy, nor end the frostbite of underfunding. But they are transformative in their own small, glowing way.
Social care often functions in the coldest parts of society, in places of poverty, loneliness, fragility, and grief. Yet it generates warmth that radiates outward, shaping families, communities, and the national character.
Think of the elderly woman whose world has shrunk to the dimensions of her living room. To her, the home‑care worker is not merely support: they are sunlight breaking through cloud, a reminder that life is still capable of connection.
Or consider the young woman living with complex needs whose support team empower her to take her place in the world: to go to college, nurture friendships, have ambitions. Where once she felt invisible she is now seen.
These are acts of apricity.
They are the winter sun that coaxes life into movement again.
If February’s natural world is shifting toward renewal, perhaps our social care world can do the same. The warmth carers provide is real, but they are themselves often exposed to the cold: low pay, workforce shortages, burnout, and the emotional toll of always giving, always absorbing.
To honour apricity in social care is to ensure the carers themselves are warmed.
That means valuing the emotional labour built into every interaction; it means recognising care as a skilled, relational profession; it is furthered by ensuring fair conditions that allow carers the rest and renewal their work demand, and all of this requires re‑imagining social care not as a cost but as a public, moral, and cultural asset.
Apricity is a gift, but it cannot be taken for granted. Even the winter sun needs a clear sky.
As February slips toward March, the earth prepares for its thaw. The same is needed in Scotland’s approach to social care. The last few weeks following the Scottish Budget which was signed off on Wednesday last, have been bruising and hard and full of moments of a deep lack of awareness and appreciation for the organisations and workers who make up Scotland social care sector. After years of political frostiness; debates frozen between ideologies, reforms stuck in permafrost, perhaps now is the moment to welcome a change of season.
Carers have long been the apricity in our national winter.
It is time we became theirs.
Apricity does not pretend the cold is gone.
It simply reminds us that warmth is still possible.
In the landscape of social care, that is what carers do every day. They offer small, unwavering acts of humanity that break through the bleakness and remind us that even in the hardest months, care is a form of sunlight: steady, life‑giving, and quietly revolutionary.
As February creeps to its ends, let us celebrate the apricity they bring, and work toward building a Scotland where that warmth becomes not a rare winter gift, but the climate we all live in.
Winter Light
Late‑winter light drifts across the quiet ground,
a soft glow settling where the cold once held firm,
the kind of warmth that arrives without announcement,
a reminder that the world still holds gentle surprises.
Shadows loosen their grip as the day unfolds,
and a pale brightness gathers in the stillness;
unhurried, steady, mindful of its own return,
a quiet promise stitched into the turning hours.
In this moment, there is a pulse beneath everything,
a subtle sense of belonging rising from the calm,
teaching that even in the leanest seasons,
light finds a way to begin again.
And as the hours stretch their fingers into evening,
a softer truth becomes visible:
even in the coldest months, renewal begins quietly,
often unnoticed, but always moving forward.
So when the first true warmth settles on your skin,
gentle as a hand placed reassuringly on a shoulder,
may it bring with it the knowledge that nothing stays frozen forever;
that in time, light returns, hearts open, and the deep work of caring
for ourselves, for one another,
is quietly renewed.
Donald Macaskill
