This is our fourth February in New York, and I say this every year, but it feels colder than it’s ever been. It felt like -16 degrees on my walk to work yesterday. Even with a down coat and too many layers to count, my legs tingled.
Of course, the cold is one of the best parts of the year because it lets me stay inside and eat cake for breakfast and read all Saturday. I love this permission to do less.
Right now, snow is falling, almost deciding to stick to our window, and then realizing that would be a warm mistake and twirling on down to the street, where it joins the gray icebergs that have made sidewalks disappear lately.
When we first saw this ice on the East River, I think we gasped. From my comfy couch, I’ve been watching the river flow for 4 years, and this winter the river slowed and Manhattan’s reflection almost touched Brooklyn’s shore in the slower, still river. I’m also pretty sure the ice is confusing the river’s direction and it’s flowing backwards, but it seems almost too magical to be real.
This month, I read this book and threw out things I maybe shouldn’t have. I woke from the sound of a plow on the cobblestones. My sister visited and we ate dosas and watched old home videos. Two of my friends had babies. Walker gave me cheese and poetry books for Valentine’s Day. And I am dream dream dreaming about warmth.
Here’s to more calm, cold-outside-warm-inside weekends (but not too many!).