How to listen to the cold

And what it says in return

Photo by Adam Lukac on Pexels

Hey there everyone – 

It was quite the weekend here in Portland. My power went out Saturday during what was supposed to be a heavy snowstorm, but instead turned into more of a really cold, high wind situation. The winds gusted to 45 mph. The daytime high was 14 degrees.

My neighbor across the street is from Vietnam. He planted a palm tree in his yard and over the years he’s lived there, it’s grown very tall. I like to think he planted it to remind him of his past, but I don’t know if that’s true. I sat on the couch, watching the fine snow blow across the street in tiny drifts, and the large leaves of the palm tree whip back and forth. I wondered what it would take to bring the tree down, and about the depth of palm tree roots. A family of squirrels live in the tree. The mom carries the babies along the power lines, like a high wire subway, to cross the street into my yard, where they learn to climb the fence and eat birdseed and chase each other in circles around the tree trunks. I wondered how the squirrels were holding up in that tree. The temperature in the house dropped slowly throughout the day as the light faded out. I didn’t expect to get my power back any time soon—with the wind escalating in its intensity, it was clear I was one of many people in the same boat. 

I sat on the couch in my blankets, and I thought about the people who were kind enough to go out in this storm and restore power, and those who didn’t have any protection from the elements. I had expected the day to be joyful. I love watching snow fall; I love tromping through deep drifts; I love the special occasion of it here because it comes so infrequently. Now, instead of watching snow fall, instead of inhabiting reverie, I had sunk into watchfulness. I kept scanning the sky and the wind-lashed trees. Once the power was out, an internal clock started ticking. When would the power come back? What would happen to me between then and now?

Just before the power went out I had been watching an interview with the poet Joy Harjo. They asked about her writing practice. She said she listens, and the poem is her reply to whatever addresses her. A frog. A river. A history. The practice is finding enough silence.

The cold is one kind of silence. Falling show is another. I sat on the couch some more. Dusk came, and I tried to listen to the cold. I was distracted by what I was seeing. Also, the clock got in my way. Was it irresponsible to be listening to the cold, when perhaps I should be ensuring my future self had food and water? Plus, my mind and the wind outside were both roaring. What does it take to be able to listen like Joy Harjo listens? Where does she listen from? Once there, how does she find the path back to speech? 

I had taunted the cold before it came. Tried to anger it enough to hurry up and get here. We had been mired in 40-degree days, full of rain and mud. Portland weather is made up of different precipitation words, to clarify just what kind of water to anticipate. The sky was so low it made our eyelids droop. People were telling me this is just how it is. They slumped into resignation. 

The cold came, but its greeting was a slap. It’s not hard to attune to the body’s sensations in 14 degree weather. The emotional numbness and mental preoccupation that mark my usual lived experience are obliterated when the cold forces the air from my lungs so fast I can’t catch my breath. Maybe that’s part of what the cold says. Every day is strange, if you pay attention. Nothing you had planned is certain.

Yesterday I learned an ice storm is coming this afternoon. I stopped what I was doing to quickly cook soup, make dal—things I can heat on a single burner if the power goes out again. It may be that the efforts I made yesterday aren’t needed and today will again be a complete surprise. As I write, the sky is blue and the sun is lighting up the pale brown stalks of last season’s dahlia plants.

The cold answers me: Wake up, it says. Appreciate the warmth, the shelter. Tend to others. Let go of control. It is impatient with my perpetual fussing and planning. It waves its staff at me, one part emphasis, one part threat. Then it shrugs. Either I will listen, or I won’t. It pulls up its hood, exhales a cloud of frost, and turns away, its feet crunching in the snow.

Stay safe out there this week —

xo

Rebecca