Blizzard
Snow sparkling on the ground under the street light; shins hidden in snow drifts; heavy wind made visible by dense white flurries. Frightened (my mom always told me not to go out in below-zero temperatures; not to traipse around when the wind is roaring at more 20 mph), I venture out: face covered, feet booted, fingers mittened.
Unlike in my hometown in the southern Midwest—where the world stops at the sight of sticking snow; stops when the wind-chill drops below zero (the children will freeze, after all); where slippers go on, chili stews in its pot, fire dances warmth through the house; where sedentary muscles melt into house arrest, beer and videos entertain—in urban Boston, people venture out. They brave the elements; use their quadriceps to lift heavy boots, one step at a time, out of the snow.
At some point in the maturation process, one needs to re-evaluate childhood lessons. Most of this happens as a classic coming of age story during adolescence, e.g.: “Stand By Me,” "Catcher in the Rye". Yet some remnants remain through early adulthood, most based in a deeply ingrained fear: don’t dive off high cliffs into rivers; don’t leave the toaster plugged in; don’t venture out in a blizzard.
While my mom is usually right (especially when it comes to relationships and homemade medical remedies—like flat Coke for a stomach ache, including that which accompanies a hangover), her nurturing, overly-protective, biological instincts have left me with various unnecessary fears. Untangling the unnecessary and absurd from the rational can take years, decades really.
Last night, I dared to untangle. While debating whether to leave my apartment, cross the Charles into Cambridge for a dinner party or to lie snuggled on my couch, watching movies, it occurred to me that I have canoed against 30 mph winds. If I could canoe under such conditions for hours, days, in fact, I could probably walk. It was an epiphany. I bundled up in layers, putting on the same rain pants that keep me dry while canoeing, and headed out.
What I learned on this cross-city adventure was that maneuvering through blizzard-like conditions is a bit different than canoeing. When paddling, you want the bow of the canoe to cut into the wake at about a 75 degree angle. Essentially, slicing the wind head-on; slicing the waves. A 45 degree angle would mean guaranteed tipping; 90 degrees, a stand-still. This ideal angle still grates on your shoulders, on your biceps; you still feel lactic acid crawling under your skin. Yet it is significantly easier, and at least you move forward, at least you progress.
Walking, however, is extremely unpleasant at 75 degrees. In fact, it’s unpleasant at all angles; the wind, sharp and cold, slices you. Thus, one can only pray (and since I’m an atheist, this only gets you so far) for a tailwind.
I enjoyed my adventure, though. The air was chaotic, almost violent, yet quiet and prestine. The ground was mysterious, yet soft and as shinny as a sequenced dress.
I smiled, surprised.
Unlike in my hometown in the southern Midwest—where the world stops at the sight of sticking snow; stops when the wind-chill drops below zero (the children will freeze, after all); where slippers go on, chili stews in its pot, fire dances warmth through the house; where sedentary muscles melt into house arrest, beer and videos entertain—in urban Boston, people venture out. They brave the elements; use their quadriceps to lift heavy boots, one step at a time, out of the snow.
At some point in the maturation process, one needs to re-evaluate childhood lessons. Most of this happens as a classic coming of age story during adolescence, e.g.: “Stand By Me,” "Catcher in the Rye". Yet some remnants remain through early adulthood, most based in a deeply ingrained fear: don’t dive off high cliffs into rivers; don’t leave the toaster plugged in; don’t venture out in a blizzard.
While my mom is usually right (especially when it comes to relationships and homemade medical remedies—like flat Coke for a stomach ache, including that which accompanies a hangover), her nurturing, overly-protective, biological instincts have left me with various unnecessary fears. Untangling the unnecessary and absurd from the rational can take years, decades really.
Last night, I dared to untangle. While debating whether to leave my apartment, cross the Charles into Cambridge for a dinner party or to lie snuggled on my couch, watching movies, it occurred to me that I have canoed against 30 mph winds. If I could canoe under such conditions for hours, days, in fact, I could probably walk. It was an epiphany. I bundled up in layers, putting on the same rain pants that keep me dry while canoeing, and headed out.
What I learned on this cross-city adventure was that maneuvering through blizzard-like conditions is a bit different than canoeing. When paddling, you want the bow of the canoe to cut into the wake at about a 75 degree angle. Essentially, slicing the wind head-on; slicing the waves. A 45 degree angle would mean guaranteed tipping; 90 degrees, a stand-still. This ideal angle still grates on your shoulders, on your biceps; you still feel lactic acid crawling under your skin. Yet it is significantly easier, and at least you move forward, at least you progress.
Walking, however, is extremely unpleasant at 75 degrees. In fact, it’s unpleasant at all angles; the wind, sharp and cold, slices you. Thus, one can only pray (and since I’m an atheist, this only gets you so far) for a tailwind.
I enjoyed my adventure, though. The air was chaotic, almost violent, yet quiet and prestine. The ground was mysterious, yet soft and as shinny as a sequenced dress.
I smiled, surprised.
posted by katharine at 1:34 PM
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