The Icy-Cold Grasp of Advice

A couple of days ago, I had a little dream where Old Man Winter and I were sharing a bowl of soup in my grandmother’s stone cottage. He nibbled on a warm, wet turnip while I explained that it wasn’t winter that I disliked per se; it was being cold. He passed me the spoon and told me it was a metaphor for life. He explained that being cold was uncomfortable, and if I allowed myself to be comforted by others and myself, then it wouldn’t be so bad. I ripped off a piece of bread and chewed thoughtfully. He then went further on that winter was also a test, a trial by ice to experience hardships so as to know when life was truly good. He slurped at the dregs of the bowl and I went on my merry little way.

I took him up on his advice this weekend. I treated myself to ice cream, I took long baths, I even talked to my Ma. It was a pleasant time, but a little voice in my head kept telling me that I was over-doing it. Thinking about this, Old Man Winter’s voice suddenly popped into my head.

“Well,” he said, “all things are proportional. How cold do you want winter to be?”

If that’s the case, I reckon it’s time to lay off the ice cream.