The bitter cold continues. I have reminded my husband at least a dozen times this week that I never want to live anywhere colder than Boston. Then I turn around and remind my concerned relatives in Texas that yes, I have to get out when it’s seven degrees, because I have to go to work. Which means standing on frigid subway platforms, hurrying across the wind-whipped Common with my hood up, and tramping down frozen streets white with salt.
Yesterday, I made myself get outside after eating lunch at my desk (because I get cranky if I don’t leave my building at least once during the day, no matter how frigid it is). After a trip to the bank, and a bit of shopping for a friend’s birthday, I gave in and headed to Starbucks for that proven pair of pick-me-ups: a chai latte and half an hour with my journal.
I snagged my favorite round table in the back corner, next to a huge picture window through which the sun streamed, warming the wide wooden sill and the tabletop and even my hair. I pulled out my colorful journal and one of my favorite pens, sipped my warm, spicy drink, and scribbled down a few thoughts and worries and blog post ideas. I doubt I’ll find any great insight in reading back over that entry, but it was enough to sit there, to write, to breathe, to be.
On my way back to work, I walked along the western edge of the Common, bounded by leafless trees and dead grass, dotted with a few other hardy walkers. My boots crunched through a mixture of sand and gravel and rock salt, scattered there by some city employee who spends far more time in the cold than I do. As I walked, a few chunks of salt caught the light, sparkling like crystals escaped from a geode, or like fallen stars.
It’s amazing what half an hour of sunshine, and chai, can do for your perspective. (But I still hope the mercury rises soon.)