It's twenty-two and falling, and will go down into single digits tonight. Below zero is in the offing. Yes, ma'am, it's cold out there which means that in here the thrum of space heaters permeates the air. Yes, we have a fireplace, but this is a big house, and a single fireplace just won't do it. Outside, where it's freezing it is also quiet, and I want to be there. Where it's quiet. Wait a minute, not exactly quiet, but out there where the creek runs under the small bridge across from my house. I took my grandson there yesterday and taught him to listen for his name in the water. I want to hear my name in it now.
Ice doilies dangle in the water from the hems of shore line rocks. My parka is blizzard proof. Jamie bought it for me for my birthday. You can stand in the midst of a squall and know it's freezing but not feel it, not feel the discomfort of it but solely the exuberance of the whirling snow. Of course, these are not survival conditions - this is not Jack London weather - just the little bridge over the creek in front of the house. I'm not trying to make a fire in a snow storm. I'm not tempting frostbite. Just trying to blend with the weather, to embrace it, not defy it, to stand in its midst, to know the cold and not be bothered by it.
Cold like this is a pugnacious son of a bitch. It seeks out every opening - every zipper left unzipped - feints to the left, clobbers with a right. I stand in the middle of the bridge and bellow, "Come 'n' get me!" and, oh, boy, does it try! I feel it huffing and puffing out there, trying to get in, but this parka fends off every attack. For an instant I feel like a wild animal whose thick fur beats back each gust. I do. I bellow into the wind, not crazy like King Lear but with the gusto of a cowboy on a bronco. Up drafts and down drafts. Cross currents and undercurrents. This wind. Open to this wind. It's the breath of the world. I lose my boundaries in it and with that all sense of self, all the chatter and bric-a-brac, just the creek beneath my feet calling my name.
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