John and I had an interesting discussion with friends about cold. We were bantering about whether it is real or not. Cold is not a thing you can confine to a box and then snap the lid before it escapes. I am operating on that appearance when I pack an ice chest for a picnic, but in reality the task is keeping the warmth out. If I were in Alaska in December, there would be no need for ice cubes in my cooler because there isn't any heat to hold at bay. In Cairo, however, heat is pounding on the lid with both fists, dying to melt your sorbet. 

 

Sometimes I feel a chill in my relationships. I buffer myself with resentments and blame, like insulation. It takes effort to keep affection out. There are people that I separate myself from with expired stories about how they have wronged me. I notice myself holding on to battered excuses that bar me from kindness. Even I grow weary of the memorized litany of allegations, and I wrote the script. 

 

Recently I opened the door to a once frosty friendship. I laid aside the asbestos of Reasons To Stay Mad, and noticed a warm breeze. Some of the old patterns surfaced, but I gently pushed them aside. I was present with the coziness of this moment, and heat flowed into the space that had once been held siege.