In winter, I get cold. And when I get cold I am constantly reminding people that I am cold. When they say, "How are you?" I say, without fail, "Well, I am cold. This damn cold." I am deeply uninteresting in the winter. Though sometimes, truth be told, I'll be caught off guard and instead I'll say, "I'm fine. What I love about winter is the way all that sunlight blazes through the trees, come summer we'll have gained warmth, but we'll have shed ourselves of so much light." Or perhaps I'll tell them a story about the day, nap time, or what I'm working on in school. The fact of the matter is, which I've stated above, I am deeply uninteresting in winter.
In the fall I am also deeply uninteresting, but the contours are different. I'll say things like, "We should enjoy these days before winter comes." Or, "Look at the rusted color of those leaves, and the way the late autumnal light cloaks those trees in gold and look at all the clouds scuttling across that piercing blue sky." Though usually I'll just say that I'm not ready for the winter. I'll say, "I'm from CA, so I don't do the cold." Deep down, I suspect everyone knows I am deeply uninteresting.
Many winters ago I traveled up north when we were living in Michigan. We went cross country skiing, which turns out to just be working very hard at pulling oneself along with poles in the snow. If there is joy in it, like many things in life, it escapes me. After a few miles the group stopped to self-assess and talk about the plans for the day. Someone saw a cardinal, a splash of red on the white quilt of the afternoon. My eyes were so dry that my contacts froze to death.
We skiied back across the tracks of white land, pulling ourselves along with thin black poles, like stars passing across some great white sky. But of course, like the stars, it meant nothing. Back in the cabin, I pulled my contacts out and eventually threw them away. I spent the last few hours of the trip wandering around with everything around me in a haze. It was a pleasant way to spend a winter's afternoon, for once not talking, just trying to discern the shape of things to come. Is that a friend crossing the room to talk to me or just a chair? Who knows how long it will be until someone sidles up, and we start talking once again, of the oncoming cold.
In the fall I am also deeply uninteresting, but the contours are different. I'll say things like, "We should enjoy these days before winter comes." Or, "Look at the rusted color of those leaves, and the way the late autumnal light cloaks those trees in gold and look at all the clouds scuttling across that piercing blue sky." Though usually I'll just say that I'm not ready for the winter. I'll say, "I'm from CA, so I don't do the cold." Deep down, I suspect everyone knows I am deeply uninteresting.
Many winters ago I traveled up north when we were living in Michigan. We went cross country skiing, which turns out to just be working very hard at pulling oneself along with poles in the snow. If there is joy in it, like many things in life, it escapes me. After a few miles the group stopped to self-assess and talk about the plans for the day. Someone saw a cardinal, a splash of red on the white quilt of the afternoon. My eyes were so dry that my contacts froze to death.
We skiied back across the tracks of white land, pulling ourselves along with thin black poles, like stars passing across some great white sky. But of course, like the stars, it meant nothing. Back in the cabin, I pulled my contacts out and eventually threw them away. I spent the last few hours of the trip wandering around with everything around me in a haze. It was a pleasant way to spend a winter's afternoon, for once not talking, just trying to discern the shape of things to come. Is that a friend crossing the room to talk to me or just a chair? Who knows how long it will be until someone sidles up, and we start talking once again, of the oncoming cold.
Wow. You ARE cold ...
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