Living in the Northeast, I brace myself for the inevitable every winter. It’s gotten easier over the years; planning and prepping in advance make a huge difference in my ability to cope. Mastering the snowblower doesn’t seem like a big deal but it is when your 3-car driveway is covered in a foot-and-a-half layer of snow. Today’s storm brings me here.

I am, uncomfortably, keenly aware of the isolating feeling a storm creates. There’s no one to make me a cup of tea or pour me a drink when I walk into the house, snow-covered and shivering. It’s worse when the power goes out; sitting in the dark and cold (my next house will have a fireplace) is bearable during the day, but at night, reading by candlelight under a pile of blankets only goes so far. One night like that can be fun. More than that, and all I want to do is sleep to pass the time, and even then, I don’t sleep well or much. I envy my friends living in communities where gathering together is the norm, not the exception.

I think about how privileged I am, to have a solid roof over my head and walls that keep the wind and most of the cold out. I think about my ancestors and how they might have survived brutal conditions. Were they truly of hardier stock? How did the poorest among them survive? Did the poorest, those truly suffering with no support, survive? In the coldest place on earth people choose to live there. Or maybe they don’t have a choice, and they accept, and adapt. Together.

Other people make it easier. As a friend taught me recently, shared pain is lessened; shared joy increased. I would happily plow snow every day for the rest of my life if there was someone on the other side of the door, waiting for me with a cup of tea and a kiss.