December 1, 2025
As the seasons shift and the temperatures drop, today’s Thought of the Day and Question of the Day invite us to slow down, breathe out that last warm sigh of fall, and take stock of the little moments that make winter feel like winter. This post digs into the poetry of the cold, the way it plays tricks on memory, and the very real experience of stepping into the one room of the house that transforms instantly into a walk-in freezer.
Thought of the Day: “December’s wintery breath is already clouding the pond, frosting the pane, obscuring summer’s memory…” — John Geddes
There’s something about this line that hits right between the shoulder blades. Maybe it’s because winter has a way of sneaking up on us, one icy morning at a time, until suddenly everything warm feels like a distant rumor.
I read this and immediately think about how quickly we forget the ease of summer. The long evenings. The warm air. The way stepping outside didn’t require a small logistical operation of locating coats, gloves, hats, mismatched socks, and that one kid who’s hiding under a blanket pretending to be a mountain.
But winter brings its own lessons. Its own invitations.
December’s breath isn’t just cold. It’s clarifying. It’s honest. When the pond clouds and the windows frost, you’re forced to look inward. The world gets quieter, and somehow, you can hear yourself think again.
Winter also compels gratitude in a way summer never does. It’s hard to appreciate a warm mug until your fingers have been numb for ten minutes. It’s hard to savor stepping into a warm house until you’ve been scraped by wind strong enough to slap the memory of July right out of you.
If you like seasonal reflections, you might also enjoy You should not expect figs in winter
Question of the Day: What part of your house gets the coldest in winter?
In my house, the coldest room is the kids’ room. And of course it is. Naturally. Why would the room I sleep in be cold? Why would the office, where I write these posts at night, be cold? No, no. The universe looked at my life and decided, “You know where we’ll put the arctic blast? The place he most frequently has to stand still at night while whispering short monologues like: ‘Please, I’m begging you, just close your eyes.’”
I don’t think my kids notice the cold at all. They sleep like tiny space heaters who give off approximately zero warmth to the environment. Meanwhile, I’m tucking them in wearing a hoodie, socks, and the kind of shivering usually reserved for people stranded on the side of Everest.
Every winter I swear I’m going to fix the vent. Or insulate something. Or at least buy slippers that don’t make me look like a dad who has given up completely. But then life happens, the holidays arrive, the schedule fills up, and somehow I’m back to my usual routine: open the door, step inside the North Pole, tuck in a child who is somehow sweating in 47-degree air, then flee back to the hallway like I’ve just escaped a cryotherapy chamber.
There’s a metaphor buried in there too. The places we care about the most are often the ones that cost us the most warmth. Parenting is basically constant heat loss, but in a way that leaves you full rather than empty.
If cozy domestic observations are your thing, check out my earlier post where I confessed What’s the most unexpectedly comfortable thing in your home?
What room in your home turns into the tundra every winter? And does it bother your family as little as mine seems to bother my kids?
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