Ice - January 24 2013

Today when I woke, the world was covered with a sheet of thin, clear, ice. Simply walking out the door was a hazardous endeavor. The ice was brought about because rain fell upon a very frozen ground and a cold city. The temperature today was a balmy 33 degrees. Now, you might think I’m being sarcastic about the ‘balmy’ bit, but you must understand that the temperatures I (and many others) have endured this January have made 33 degrees feel balmy. I’m talking about single digits, and highs in the teens, day after day after day. So today in this gray, foggy, icy, perilous, 30 degree weather, I was quite cheery. I wore a cashmere sweater, two coats, wool socks, and rubber boots, all day. I slid to my classes and thought about how my father used to tell my  brother to pick up his feet when he walked, and how my boots cost me $2 at a thrift store. I thought about my life and the universe and I probably spoke less than 100 words today. I didn’t chat with anyone. I didn’t talk on the phone. I just rested in a cocoon of silence and layers of clothing. I listened to music in ipodland and  raindrops. I sang songs to myself.

The nature of the sidewalk prevented haste, and promoted a kind of smooth, slow, and pensive dance. It cannot be called a gait, with such irregularity and feet moving back and forth, side to side. I wondered if all the people walking by me could see the thoughts I generated, and the narrative I carried all day, would they pity my loneliness or follow my lead? Sometimes I feel that I am held captive by my thoughts, that their constant presence and commotion in my head is an absolute nuisance, but today I watched them come and go. I handled them gently and kindly, without pressure. I was influenced today by my favorite book, “Letters to a Young Poet” by Ranier Rilke. I ventured in solitude and gratitude and memory, let words collect and sort themselves in my head, and it was all very calming and lovely.

In closing, Rilke wrote of solitude, ” But if then you notice that it is great, rejoice because of this; for what (ask yourself) would solitude be that had no greatness; there is but one solitude, and that is great, and not easy to bear, and to almost everybody come hours when they would gladly exchange it for any sort of intercourse, however banal and cheap, for the semblance of some slight accord with the first comer, with the unworthiest…. But perhaps those are the very hours when solitude grows; for its growing is painful as the growing of boys and sad as the beginning of springtimes. But that must not mislead you. The necessary thing is after all but this: solitude, great inner solitude. Going-into-oneself and for hours meeting no one — this one must be able to attain. To be solitary, the way one was solitary as a child, when the grownups went around involved with things that seemed important and big because they themselves looked so busy and because one comprehended nothing of their doings.”