The Merits of Cold

This blog is full of references to my general disdain for all things winter-related.  I've complained a bit here or there of my complete confusion as to why perfectly logical human beings choose to settle in a place where subzero temps are too commonly the norm. I'm perpetually cold in my apartment, I sleep with six (6!) blankets, and the 5:40 a.m. trudge to the busstop with double digit negative windchills has inspired a number of quasi-homesick postings.  I try not to whine (so unladylike).  But I believe it's fairly plain that I miss my South-of-the-Mason-Dixon upbringing, and New Orleans in particular, quite vehemently.

That being said, there is merit to the chill. I spent this New Year's Eve dashing about a friend's backyard broomball rink (that's me in red behind the rink's owner, Adam, who's clearly more skilled than I):

It wasn't the first time I'd played broomball, and I know it won't be the last as I've signed up for a church team starting up in the next few weeks.  It's a nutty, spirited, occasionally vicious game that always leaves me with a random bruise here or there and the sneaking suspicion there are muscles in my butt that God created strictly for the sake of broomball.

After the final round of play, a couple of us ladies plopped onto the rink and made snow angels, rolling around like 8 year-olds, with hair falling out of ponytails, skin kissing ice, giggling as we skidded and reveled in the last evening of 2010. The night was cloudy and starless, but as I rested on the ice and stared skyward, the wind gusted and blew snow off the trees, sending tiny pinpricks of white to swirl and shimmy to the ground. 

It was a happy moment, made happier by its brevity and the promise of hot mulled wine and good friends inside. I can appreciate that simple, visceral experience of coming in out of the cold, entering a warm home with the soft glow of expectant hugs, the ripping off of cold socks, the wrapping 'round of a well-worn blanket.  I love that slow, subsiding ache as the cold, inch by inch, leaves my fingers.  And I love to hear the hoot and howl of wind as it begs to enter every nook and cranny and every nook and cranny politely says, "no."

The cold is an evil, hateful thing if you're alone.  And I imagine the extra hours of darkness and the bite of ice are made more miserable without the company of dear souls.  So while I ache for Home (and the aching is that much deeper when you have no immediate plan to return), I am grateful for warm spiced wine, specifically perfect hugs, rosy-cheeked laughter, fellow snow angel makers, and the myriad opportunities to make the most of the frozen part of God's creation.