New York City is hot and cold right now, both literally and figuratively. Yesterday it was 60 degrees, and tomorrow its only going to be 30. My radiator continues to pump out obscene quantities of steam-hot air, and at work I shiver because getting dressed in such a hot house causes me to forget to wear socks in January. I still love the city, but more and more I've found myself wanting to be somewhere else, far away. And yet, the winter of my discontent? No. Lately I feel like I'm walking around with springtime inside of me, I'm so happy.
And, like a snowball rolling down a hill in a cartoon, the feeling just grows and grows. Everything I do and see makes me happy, whether it is the children playing dominoes on a card table in the lobby of my building or my coworkers complaining about the most meaningless things. Some things add to my happiness, others emphasize it by contrast. The world is gorgeous to me and, like the most beautiful art, it's beauty comes from a mixture of deep shadow and penetrating light. And rather than running from the snowball, I'm standing in its path, willing it to roll me over and carry me along.