Frigidity through a house with tall windows.

One winter morning the town woke up to yet another winter morning. It was an odd morning though because no one gently awoke to the sound of a furnace clicking on, or water running through radiators. As doors opened to retrieve newspapers, the townspeople felt funny confronted by their same backyards blanketed in snow. It was warm. Awkwardly warm like the first day of the year wearing shorts, when warmth doesn’t feel right on your legs. The birds loquaciously agreed the same way birds complement a pulsing midsummer morning. But it was the same low angle light as the same time yesterday, so there was no reason the day should not go on.

     At school and work, between acquaintances and among passerby, the townspeople’s conversations gravitated to the day’s strange whether. The world appeared as when felt through a vaporous cup of hot tea millimeters from the face. The conversations never stayed long on the topic though because there were tasks to accomplish and progress to be made.

     By mid-day, the morning sky’s tarnished metallic hue grew to the stark cerulean that always contrasted the dull winter earth. The high sun gave the townspeople a warm sense of security. They stopped talking about the weather and focused on plans to enact. The birds took their daily siesta from singing and the snowpack began its daily attempt at melting.

     When the townspeople emerged from and lightened the steel office buildings, headlights blinked on for the drive home. Fine steel wool clouds filled the sky but the usual sharp chill evaded the air. The warm weather resumed its position as topic of conversation.

           

As sure as weather will change, the townspeople continued to experience the funny-feeling weather through the winter. Regardless of how much snow piled over cars, the apparently cold days always felt warm. When spring began encroaching the landscape, the atmosphere recommenced with the biting cold temperatures so ruminated during the storms before.

     The townspeople’s lives had continued as normal. Papers signed, projects pushed, plans delayed. Of course the weather was investigated. Protocol written, funding procured, data analyzed. Interesting things were learned, but in the end the townspeople found it more rewarding to focus on adapting.

     As change in weather continued, the hindsight was the most difficult to deal with. Reality confused the townspeople’ memories so that a warm remembrance was draped in a vale of dark cold. Luckily, the coldest memories began to brighten and warm. It was like living in a whole new world, even a whole new body. It was hard to believe the body could feel one way when the mind remembered another . Gradually, the townspeople’s minds and behaviors adjusted to the change. Progress continued, deals were made, plans impeded and completed.

I recently entered an essay contest for free entry into the Telluride Mountain Run. Of the three essay prompts, I responded to the question, "What is the next big thing to ultrarunning?" You can read the winner's and my essay here. My name is actually Hannah. 

I like to think I lost to the single other entrant because I disobeyed the rules and did not write my essay in one sitting, tripping on Benzedrine. Instead I put it on my to do list, tackled it in ten sittings of five minute each, edited, and re-edited. It's the same way I tackled 15 letters of introduction to professors and 87 cover letters for job applications over the last year. The same way I to-do-listed my way out of college. The slight edge.

For all the technical writings I polished off to the tune of my Glitch Mob Pandora station in the Mansfield library, this essay was the most challenging task I ever assigned in my planner. I kicked myself for losing touch of the creative 8-year-old I once was. I used to write stories, draw pictures, and subject my parents to make believe games. I am proud of everything I accomplished in college, but I would hate to trade in the ability to create imaginary worlds in exchange for the ability to run power analyses.

As nostalgic as barista life is, I am filled with a manic dread that my plans for becoming the scientist I set out to be will fall through. Inspired by a failed essay contest, an attempt to avoid mental listlessness, a current read by a favorite author Annie Proulx, and my cousin Emily's creative writing, I'm trying to write more.