Warmth, not heat, but warmth seems to define the human condition. I welcome warmth with anticipation for what the season brings and watch it depart with gratitude for its many gifts.
It’s the first spring-like day in early April, I quiver with the anticipation of lasting warmth. It feels like new love. Standing outside, under a clear sky, I turn my face to the bright sun. The air is calm and my jacket lies unneeded on the grass. I fill my lungs with the scent of the waking earth; I watch robins hop across the lawn, piping their cheery song. In my heart, I know there’s more warmth where this came from. And even if a few flurries and drizzles follow next week, I know I hold a ticket to winter’s last act. Real warmth is on its way.
All too soon it’s the end of October, and possibly it’s the last summer-like day of the year. Now the midday sun rolls closer to the horizon, shadows lie longer across the yard, and there’s frost in the morning. I shiver a little and take comfort in the jacket zipped to my neck. Here in the North, on the cusp of gray, stormy November, I dwell on the bumper crop of heirloom tomatoes, the happy sound of children running through the sprinkler, and the suntan I got without a bad burn. It might snow tomorrow, but I have a larder full of memories to carry me through the winter.
Warmth. Yes! But it’s the memories of warmth that sustain me in the coldest of seasons.