Cold: I see you. I see you in the naked, shivering trees. I see you on the lake, as you gust and skim across its steely surface.
Cold: I feel you. I feel you with a shock and a sharp intake of breath as I step carefully from the stone slab into the water. You surround my bare feet and legs with your urgent, attention-seeking selfishness.
The cold is constant: it won’t get warmer. Now, I tell myself, before I lose feeling in my feet. My upper body rebels, but I insist. Now: lean forward, let go – into the water – and swim.
I swim. A few strokes, a small circle in the water. It is a conscious effort to breathe steadily through my nose, a mantra that I repeat to myself. Arms and legs stretch out in a rapid breaststroke. Hands and feet push away and pull back in, seeking warmth through the brisk movement and finding the opposite. There is nothing in the world but me and the silky water, my body and the cold.
It’s almost enjoyable.
Climbing awkwardly back onto the stone slab, the cold comes with me. I shiver – small, involuntary muscular spasms in my whole body. With an effort of control, I run to the heap of clothes on the low wall and snatch my towel up, hopping from foot to foot, seeking warmth in the microfibre material.
The towel provides no warmth – and yet the shivers subside. The tension in my muscles eases and I can relax, allowing myself to enjoy the gentle wind on my skin that brushes the remaining water droplets away. I allow myself a moment to watch the sailing boats scudding over the waves and to notice the distant mountains and the clouds chasing each other in the sky.
I relax because my body has won. Warmth has returned. I can feel my every pore, consciously: not because it hurts, but because my body feels alive. There is a tingling heat in my limbs, a combined cold and warmth as if the blood in my veins were dancing.
It is a grey, gusty afternoon in February and I feel alive.