I'm getting used to cold mornings now. It was 12 degrees here as I got up and as I walked down the street the air tasted like
diesel fuel. This afternoon it warmed to 24 and that felt pretty good. It always amazes me how I can become accustomed to the change of seasons. My body adjusts and pretty soon temperatures that felt terrible in November feel great in January.
It's the same in the summer. Damp and heavy mornings with temperatures in the 70s and humidity to match seem dreadful in June, but by August any morning that stays out of the 90s is considered tolerable.
Although our bodies adapt and our skin temperature realigns, our minds take more time. When someone we love leaves, when a close friend dies, these events leave scars that take longer than a season to heal. When we think of them, the goosebumps linger. Still, even with that attachment, those feelings, time changes us. We say we will never get over them, that we cannot go on. But we do.
One day we wake up and something has changed. The memory is there, image clear, but it has become warm and reassuring or at worst, bittersweet. We may stay bemused, but we can't bring ourselves to stay crushed. We step outside in the spring air and say:
I didn't think 50 degrees could feel this warm?