trying to read in New York

We shake with joy, we shake with grief                                               

What a time they have, these two                                               

housed as they are in the same body.                                                                

— Mary Oliver 

In January, a deep freeze ice-bound my hometown. One afternoon I ran three kilometers on the dry path beside the water and the next morning the river was solid and white, save for one gray artery in the center that flowed sluggish and dark. Mercury read -32°C (-25°F).

I was packing for New York in mid-January and everyone in the City kept warning about unbearable cold. Yet, when I looked, the weather app reported temperatures between -4/+4°C (24/39°F).

So I left my serious winter puffer behind, a choice that meant everyplace I went in the City, people wondered at my long wool jacket, my lack of scarf. Wondered even when the snow melted and the skies went lipless and blue. But when I would report the temperature in my hometown—so cold the hairs in your nose freeze together—everyone would nod, their expressions shifting to understanding.

It turns out, when it comes to cold, as in most things, context helps.