Untitled

December 30, 2001

Clear
-13°C (8.6°F) I love being warm in cold weather. Trundling along in a wool, down and fiber-filled cocoon, but tasting the cold with every breath. You never feel so alive as when you can laugh at the cold. You can feel the heat, the energy of your own body, feel how it warms you, keeping the cold at bay.

I remember walking over the Mississippi late one January night, in 30-below temperatures with a 60-below windchill. My eyelashes froze together. My facemask covered with ice. It was a thrill to step inside, water beading on my lashes, the taste of snow still in my mouth.

Cold threatens my body, instinctively, in every cell. And every cell sings the miracle of surviving, of being alive, of life when I make it home.

Or another time, when I went down to the lakes alone. I walked out to the middle. The houses seemed far, far away; the stars so close, magnified by air so cold it was almost liquid. Every sound was a struggle, but once struck, the air resonated like a bell.

But that was years ago. I’m a little less adventurous, maybe (dare I say it?) a little less alive. It hasn’t gotten that cold yet this winter. We’ll see what I do. In the meantime, I enjoy bundling up in bed – piling on blankets in thick, heavy layers and adding a cat or two for good measure.

Sleep well. Good night.