Winter

a time to be cold, so that we aren’t mild

Somewhere between humanities’ accomplishments and destruction, we have made it hard (in fact, painfully difficult) to understand or even acknowledge when our bones are temperate. When we feel neither hot, nor cold.

That scares the hell out of me.

We are taught to know consideration of fault well, to be kind and accommodating to our problems — but, more often than not, that has facilitated a dogma that we have something broken, and that until we have it fixed, we have something to be ashamed of. I’m not always able to understand who I am or what I want to achieve when I’m mild. It worries me sick that I won’t always know or be able to know when I’m lukewarm. The only thing I know or will try and know is that I have to be wary. I have to be willing to know myself well.

I don’t agree with the tradition of being considerate of my brokenness. Because if I don’t own it, if I don’t know it, then I deny it while it exists. I think that makes rehabilitation counterproductive. I think that creates more hurt in us, in our relationships, and in the families we keep. I think it’s unreasonable for us to try and bring restoration to dilapidated bridges without really knowing what kind of damage has been done.

So maybe it’s okay to be cold sometimes. There’s too much abuse of blatant symbolism in seasonal changes to try and salvage something useful to share, but winter, for me, has become a time to be self-aware of what no longer lives. To know myself well.