Monday, October 19, 2009
There is nothing more melancholic for me than the first whiff of gas forced heat.
Why? I'm not sure. I love all the seasons. I love to wear sweaters. I welcome the opportunity to sip warm drinks from a mug. I love being able to have a fire in the house (in the fireplace, as opposed to outside, in the fire pit, which I also love). I enjoy indoor activities...more games, more drawing, more movies.
Every year that heat kicks in, though...
Layers of dust. Layers of history. It's like I run through a survey of all the eras of new heat. Every house, every state of my being. I even remember how in some of my many houses the smell could be more metallic, or have a hint of damp, or suggest old wood, or carry up the smell of the basement. But always vaguely dusty, and vaguely...old. Like there was air that had been waiting all year, doing nothing, and now was being released.
The house was exhaling. Into itself.
I guess that's why I insist on cracking some windows within 24 hours of the first heat up. Need to take a full breath. And, as anyone who plays a wind instrument, or has taken yoga, knows, the quality of the exhale is just as important as the quality of the inhale.
Mustn't forget that moment between breaths. Be aware.
Then let it out. And start again.
photo from Flickr, by Moiht