Warmth

To be warm. What a gift. Each time I go into the cold December air, into the winter woods, or even step into the frozen backyard, it is not difficult to make a mental note about how comfortable it was sitting next to the old wood-burning stove, how genuinely pleasurable. It is not to say the out-of-doors is not enjoyable, but the idea, the thought, of having to live in world without much warmth is hardly ever considered for a fleeting moment in my mind’s eyes. But in a momentary pause, just that brief reflection, it does not take much imagination to sense a reality of another option, a desperately frightening option that others of all ages surely had to face.  The lack of warmth.

We are spoiled beyond belief, and have now for a number of generations, experienced comfort unimaginable even from one hundred years ago. It would seem as time passes, it becomes easy to forget because this is all we, and when I say we, I mean Americans, in the last couple of generations have ever known.

Our measurement of warmth and comfort is only compared, really, to our own most immediate history. Even the stories of many of our grandparents are recent enough to only to have known heat and warmth. I suspect it is a case of shifting baselines, where it becomes difficult to imagine any other world, because few living individuals has really had to suffer, at least in this country.

I find it almost odd that during the most bitter of days, we might have  a casual discussion with a friend while walking a winter trail, on the profound beauty ice crystals have as they slowly float through the light of an evening moon. The bold redness of the cardinal in the snow-draped spruce behind the house, and its whistle of interest, has us all moved by the relationship of life and some ethereal beauty. We have the comfort of our situation, the liberty of our personal condition of warmth, to marvel at the many changing dynamics of newly fallen snow, or the sounds of lakes mysteriously cracking underfoot, or the bitterness of the howling January winds ripping in from Canada. We have no fears because only minutes away is a warm home, a hot stove, or the soft chair all wrapped in a room of nonstop fire-induced warmth.

The thought of a half-frozen farmer stepping outside in 1845 and for one moment taking note or admiring the skirting Chickadee in search of a few simple seeds, would be absurd. His thoughts would have to be about survival of his family and livestock. After perusing the book, Wisconsin Death Trip, there is no doubt of the drudgery and the suffering inflicted by the lack of warmth. We are so fortunate to live where we do, and particularly when.

At 25 below everything the farmer owned was subject to frost and that includes his children and wife. The hours spent huddled, wrapped in rude clothing and skins has to almost be viewed as a hibernation of sorts and nothing resembling pleasurable . As the above book points out, suicide was common.  We are so lucky, so lucky.

It is no secret that up until little more than 200 hundred years ago, finding real warmth and comfort in the winter time was a luxury only enjoyed by the wealthy. Most of the unwashed masses simply had to make due. Those living on anything resembling a frontier only had the protection of a simple hut with a flame of some sort radiating the meager heat in one direction. There would have been no possibility of avoiding frost right in the “living quarters”. If the fire were to wane, or the incessant cold pushed its way into the small edifices, the only protection, the last line of defense, would be clothing.

What it amounts to, particularly after this rather long run of cold weather, is that I am very thankful, I mean, really thankful, thankful to the point that it deserves a mention on a higher level. To think that I, on occasion, actually take a warm shower, not to cleanse myself but to seek pleasure from warm water, is a privilege that even fifty years ago was not common.  To take that shower and not give pause is to be disrespectful of the earth for it is an endowment, a one time endowment from the earth that has made this possible.

What a gift. So in my hours of reflection, and the coming of another year, it would seem fitting to make a note of that good fortune and in doing it, pass out notice that warmth is not the only gift because having warmth by itself would be very lonely. Warmth accompanied by a strong family, caring delightful friends, a welcoming community, and a home filled with adequate table fare is even a greater gift. For all of this, I am thankful, and respectful of the mother earth that made it possible.

“All the way to heaven, is heaven.” St. Catherine