This morning I couldn’t help but think that everything is relative.
I was tucked in under my down comforter, feeling all cuddly and warm, except for the top of my nose. That was chilly. But it was the good kind of chilly.
When I got up, my feet were cold, but I didn’t get socks. I really love a cool summer morning. The kind where you have a sweatshirt over your t shirt and shorts while you drink coffee and listen to the birds sing, when the day is still clean and quiet.
These kind of mornings make me feel nostalgic for the carefree summers when I was a kid, sitting on my grandmother’s porch steps. The day was full of promise, it would warm up and still be summer.
The weatherman on TV said it was 51. That sounded about right.
And I thought about how different 51 feels, depending on the season.
In the fall, 51 might mean shutting the doors and windows at night, or having a fire in the morning to take off the chill.
In the spring, it might mean throwing those same doors and windows open to air out the house a bit after a long closed up winter.
In the winter, if I woke up and my house was 51, I would be a little freaked out. That would mean something was wrong with heat, pipes needed to be protected. It would be a stressful start to the day.
But this morning, 51 felt wonderful. No heat and humidity. I slept like a rock, tucked into my warm bed. I woke up refreshed and ready to start the day. I relished my hot shower, instead of trying to get as cool a one as I could bear, which was what the past few weeks had been like. The floors felt cool as I packed my lunch, and the air was clean as could be as I went out the door.
No jacket. 51 in summer feels delicious.