Cold
04/09/13 21:24
I love the cold.
Truly.
People nod and smile when I say this, but they don't understand that I mean it.
Really.
I love it.
I welcome the cold into my arms as a mother does her child.
The first time I suck in a shockingly cold breath of air I breathe deep and snap my teeth shut, biting it off in chunks like a particularly crisp apple.
The first time I breathe out and see fog, I smile quietly and say, out loud, "Hello old friend."
I love the cold.
I feel more awake, more alive, more alert in the cold. I rise earlier, work harder, move quicker, see more, hear more.
I love the cold so much that I sometimes turn off the heat and throw all my windows open in winter, gather every last blanket, and sleep like a baby with my body under my mountain of blankets as the icy breezes drift across my head.
And when I wake, I throw off the covers and race about my frigid apartment, swiftly gathering myself for the day, every surface and every object shockingly awake to the touch.
My enjoyment of cold is privileged, I know. An accident of place and person. I know all cold is not created equal, and I would not be so enthusiastic if I were living in Siberia or North Dakota or the street, if I were not 6'8" and just a little bit pudgy. If I didn't have at least the option of closing my windows and shutting the cold out of my home.
I love being warm in spite of the cold. I love wearing my winter clothing like a suit of armor. Putting on seven layers of fleece, a hat, wool socks, hiking boots, wrapping three large scarves around my head until I look like some turbaned earth-toned version of the Michelin man, then walking out on the bitterest night of the year, and standing placidly on the sidewalk as people rush by, cursing the weather, cheerfully asking "what's the problem?"
I love going out into the forest in the cold. The silent, still forest, more peaceful than it has ever been. No, that's a lie. Not still, not silent. Different. The fluttering of leaves replaced by the sweep of wind and the creak of bare branches. The cacophony of birds distilled down the few hardy souls who are sticking it out, calling to each other and to me. The riot of colors that was spring summer and fall now distilled to whites, grays and browns. Like a haiku, it says more than it seems to, and in my quilted armor, I sit on a bench, or a rock, cradling the cold I love, and contemplate.
Truly.
People nod and smile when I say this, but they don't understand that I mean it.
Really.
I love it.
I welcome the cold into my arms as a mother does her child.
The first time I suck in a shockingly cold breath of air I breathe deep and snap my teeth shut, biting it off in chunks like a particularly crisp apple.
The first time I breathe out and see fog, I smile quietly and say, out loud, "Hello old friend."
I love the cold.
I feel more awake, more alive, more alert in the cold. I rise earlier, work harder, move quicker, see more, hear more.
I love the cold so much that I sometimes turn off the heat and throw all my windows open in winter, gather every last blanket, and sleep like a baby with my body under my mountain of blankets as the icy breezes drift across my head.
And when I wake, I throw off the covers and race about my frigid apartment, swiftly gathering myself for the day, every surface and every object shockingly awake to the touch.
My enjoyment of cold is privileged, I know. An accident of place and person. I know all cold is not created equal, and I would not be so enthusiastic if I were living in Siberia or North Dakota or the street, if I were not 6'8" and just a little bit pudgy. If I didn't have at least the option of closing my windows and shutting the cold out of my home.
I love being warm in spite of the cold. I love wearing my winter clothing like a suit of armor. Putting on seven layers of fleece, a hat, wool socks, hiking boots, wrapping three large scarves around my head until I look like some turbaned earth-toned version of the Michelin man, then walking out on the bitterest night of the year, and standing placidly on the sidewalk as people rush by, cursing the weather, cheerfully asking "what's the problem?"
I love going out into the forest in the cold. The silent, still forest, more peaceful than it has ever been. No, that's a lie. Not still, not silent. Different. The fluttering of leaves replaced by the sweep of wind and the creak of bare branches. The cacophony of birds distilled down the few hardy souls who are sticking it out, calling to each other and to me. The riot of colors that was spring summer and fall now distilled to whites, grays and browns. Like a haiku, it says more than it seems to, and in my quilted armor, I sit on a bench, or a rock, cradling the cold I love, and contemplate.