This is an old sentiment. I restate it only as a reminder. The cold is hard, but it brings contrast to the edges of life.

The winter hardens the outside. It distills the warmth within. It reminds me of my frailty, and howls to me of my needs. It is the time I must cling to my home and those I love. The time when I must radiate warmth lest I go stiff.

In the morning, I walk out in its quite. I smell the emptiness. It lends salience to the whiff of wood smoke in the air, the scolding of a squirrel, the sound of my breath. Life is thin this time of year.

Who but we of the north have luxuriated in ritual of warming I do on my return from the woods? The stripping of clothes. The shiver before stepping into the steaming water. In places where they don’t know the cold, can they know the true meaning of sanctuary?