Last night I slept in my warm knit hat. I don’t like sleeping in a hat, but my head was cold, and the quickest way to remedy the situation was to put one on. Done.
The temperature dropped to eight degrees overnight, but it felt colder. Even my weather app agrees. Now, I’m no stranger to cold weather. I was raised at 8,000 feet in the Colorado Rockies. I’ve slept in snow caves. I’ve sat on metal bleachers watching my son play ice hockey at an outdoor rink in temperatures well below zero. I’ve ridden horses bareback up an icy hill in the dark after unloading them from the trailer because the truck—chains and all—couldn’t pull the weight up the steep, snow-packed grade. I’ve sat in a timing shack on the side of a narrow trail, waiting for a sled dog team to come into sight so I could click the stopwatch the instant they passed, my stiff fingers doing their best buried beneath thick mittens.
I survived.
How did I stay warm? I had some help—layers of warmth, within and without.
Sometimes it was my own two hands helping one another—rubbing together to create friction and breathing warm air into them. Other times, I found warmth by snuggling up to a horse's body and burying my fingers in its thick winter coat.
Even on the coldest days, nature reminds me that I have built-in resources. The little birds puff their feathers to trap warmth, creating a little extra distance from the cold.
There are so many ways to make here a little better. Sometimes it’s just a matter of another layer. Breathing into my cupped hands. Movement. Friction. The borrowed heat of another living being, occasionally through icy whiskers. The sun shining on my shoulders—making me happy, just like John Denver said it would.
This morning, I find myself practicing acceptance—of what is, rather than wishing it were something different. And sometimes appreciating what is goes hand in hand with noticing what is not. For instance, no hungry mosquitoes are buzzing around my head. It’s too cold.
Recently, in a writing group I’m part of, we were given a prompt to write about a time when our hands were clasped together. Since then, I’ve been more aware of how often my hands come together in quiet acts of support—helping one another or another part of my body: wiping a tear away, rubbing a sore muscle in my neck, kneading the tender space between my thumb and finger. And then there’s my own inner furnace that keeps my organs and tissues at a constant temperature so everything works as it should.
The cold makes me appreciate so many little things I don’t usually pay much attention to—from my fingers and toes, to the warm water coming out of the faucet, to that inner furnace that keeps my body regulated without any help from me.
The weather is the weather. I can adjust accordingly. And the best gift I can give myself today is not to wish it were different, but to find the beauty and comfort that are already here.