Cold Gold
“A lot of people like snow. I find it to be an unnecessary freezing of water.”
-Carl Reiner
My relationship with cold temperatures has always been strained. Northern New York brought short summers, never matching the heft of winter. Growing up, winter was something that loomed, even in June. Before thermostats and warm offices and down blankets, winter was the thing to be concerned with, braced for. The slow-creeping, bone-creaking force was rightfully feared. The uncomfortable crunch of winter felt ever-present, more than unwelcomed. Cold was poverty manifested. It was written in the words kids would scratch in the frost on the bus windows. It was frostbite, snow-filled rubber boots, aching toes, fingers and the sound of tossed firewood thunking off the concrete chute to the basement. Sometimes we’d misfire and hit the clapboard siding on the house, sending white paint chips up amongst the snowflakes. Sometimes, we’d skip a block all the way to the old furnace. There was no romanticized Scandinavian-esque love of the cold. There was no sacred waterfall Misogi. As kids, on the way to school, before the baby blue Nissan Quest would warm up, our visible breaths would float up in unison. Sometimes resentful, sometimes shaking, we grimaced together. For me, in those moments, in school, in our old farmhouse, outside, inside, I generally found the cold to be too cold.
Cold is still not my friend but we’re on speaking terms. I wonder about octopus teachers, Wim Hof, breathwork and brown fat more than I ever have. I think about what our ancestors must have endured. What they considered normal. This autumn, the cold has felt lighter, inching me closer. The more I seek to connect with it, the more it gives back. So I lean in. The morning sky is still dark and the moon is out and I sit, submerged to my neck in icy thirty three degree fahrenheit water. I breathe as deeply as possible considering the circumstances. The initial shock subsides and minutes pass more quickly now. A feeling of acceptance washes over me. I glance at my watch under the water and exhale and stand up. Suddenly, I’ve never felt so lucky to be a husband, a father and frankly to just simply be alive.
The chair at my desk in my office has never felt so warm, people so engaging. On the drive home that day, the feeling of being cold has long passed but the warmth it brought is seemingly everywhere. Everything is in sharp focus. Mae sings a song from the movie Moana from her seat. I join in during one of the lines and Mae reminds me, “Don’t sing that part. That’s my part.” Okay. I’ll just stick to the Maui parts. Outside a cold rain falls and pings off the aluminum roof of my car. As I prepare to take a right on Elm, a man in a gray suit walks purposefully, squinting through precipitation. He’s pushing a metal gurney with a fully zipped, body bag. The bag bounces joylessly in time with the cracks in the concrete as we drive past the hearse. The air feels sad and heavy but Mae just sings a little louder. An elementary student strolls past piles of composting leaves. He’s small and half-asleep and barely carrying his trumpet and I hope he has a warm place to walk to. The world ebbs and flows, always churning and refreshing. We make our way to the wet northway, moving with the current.
At home, we swing the door open, making our way over strewn boots and bookbags. We all talk about our day in fits and starts. The roses and thorns. Who has practice? Who has homework? Who wants to help with dinner? There is a thunk coming from the dryer as a pair of wet shoes toss amongst the clothes. The comforting sounds and smells of our own stories come tumbling out. I smile and recall Mr. Wilson’s flower from the “Dennis the Menace” movie. The flower opens for just an instant. Life opens. Maybe an instant is all we need.
木漏れ日,
Andy
