Blessing of Cold Air

My first post!

I wrote this one month into the pandemic. I share it now as I remember the confusion and uncertainty we all felt; the comfort of being together and the fear of not understanding what would happen next. So much sadness, with gratitude mixed in as we were safe, healthy and yes, together. It’s a moment I treasure even more now as I settle into day 6 of empty nesting.

Blessing of Cold Air

Late April 2020

People are complaining about the housework, myself included. We have settled into the strange new reality of life during a pandemic; our prior conveniences and daily routines elude us as we adjust, accept what’s missing and try to embrace some “silver linings.” Indeed, despite the unsettled feelings, we are among the luckiest. We are lucky to walk quiet country roads instead of trying to avoid getting too close to people in Central Park. Grateful to be able to escape the epicenter of this horrible disease. While my mind cycles between the annoyance of domestic chores and the profound sadness of the situation, I find myself in a moment of peace, happily doing the dishes at my farmhouse sink in a rural corner of Connecticut. Yes, our weekend house has become our shelter where we shelter in place.

The window above the sink looks out over a small sloped lawn and into the scenic, comforting woods mixed with maple, beech, pine, and oak trees. I really don’t know what the most common tree is as my gaze enjoys resting on those quiet woods. Maybe my extra time in quarantine will make me study trees. There is enough space between the trees, the brush cleared away carefully by our landscaper a few years back, that on sunny days in late afternoon light I want to be a painter.

It has been a chilly quarantine. We all shelter in place hoping that walks will soon no longer require hats and gloves as we pass into late April. This particular morning snow covers the ground. We had one tease of a high 60-degree day which made everyone feel optimistic in the gloom that brews around us. Perhaps we wish we could hold that optimism in our hands, like a smooth round stone from the nearby river, and save it for the next dreary day.

Our house was built by the previous owner with a strange combination of low budget and high-end features (I think the money may have run out). One feature is radiant floor heating. Beware of this seemingly luxurious home detail; in a bitter cold winter it takes the whole weekend to warm the house enough to take off layers of wool and fleece.

I am explaining our heating system because even my feet are sweating. Despite the chill outside, I am a woman of a certain age. For about 22 years of my 25-year marriage, I was almost always cold. In fact, my cold feet (the literal kind) were one of the things that brought my husband and I together when we were “just friends” sharing a room in a summer house filled with college classmates enjoying a social summer while working mediocre jobs. Those were the days when you could be 20 years old and still have no idea what you wanted to do with your degree, so you worked in the college library, helped out at a summer camp or even scooped ice cream. Let’s just say that summer of unambitious work, beer and mini golf led to flirting, which led to other feelings, and I made the first move with the excuse of needing to warm up my cold feet.

Our insignificant arguments about temperature over the years seem to have some commonality with those in many marriages; the man wanting to turn on the air conditioner when the temperature outside hits the perfect 68 degrees, while the woman wants to enjoy the fresh air. The warm comforter was often tossed off his side of the bed while I snuggled under it in a fetal position, cozy up to my neck.

But now, all four of us in the family share our quarantine space and try to balance way more than the temperature. My 20-year old daughter is starting to have swollen knees because she can’t dance any longer on the hard floor (like all colleges, her musical theater program is doing its best, but continuing a degree that by definition requires more face-to-face interaction than perhaps any other is hard). Meanwhile, my 18-year-old son continues to hold his emotions close. I can’t help but believe that, as a high school senior, he also holds the shortest end of the stick, having to miss so much that would have marked this milestone. As for my husband, his stress is high, with a shuttered small business presenting even more complexity than before. His age has brought on a chill, while my body temperature switches between comfortable and clothes stuck to my sweaty skin. Quarantine benefit – I have not worn a bra in 32 days!

So, I stand at my kitchen sink looking out into those beautiful woods with my privileged gaze and realize – as I begin to sweat – that I can open the window. A cold breeze wafts through. As I take this new air into my lungs with a slow, self-soothing breath, I could stand there happily washing the dishes for hours. Or at least until someone in my family realizes there is a draft and where is it coming from and why did someone open a window and what’s for dinner and damnit why is there snow on the ground in April and why is all of this happening?!! Collective primal scream. But for now, I enjoy this moment, slowly washing the breakfast dishes as my family’s eyes watch their individual screens. Quarantine high.