Why do moments like this seem to belong so particularly to the colder seasons?

Maybe it's the fire.

I am having what I used to refer, in my naive college days, as "an intrinsically happy moment." I was sitting on the floor, by the awesomely smoky and warm fire in the living room, flipping through a magazine to get ideas for Christmas. The girls were all playing in the hallway, perfectly in harmony: such moments are all the more sweeter for being so sadly rare. Lucy was sitting beside me, practicing her standing skills by pulling up on my knees, and all was quiet and cozy and right with the world. Chris came in to throw some more wood in the fire, and he brought me a glass of wine. Life could not possibly have been better.

I'm still sitting by the fire right now, on the laptop Chris gave me this summer, and I can't help but think about the different types of happy moment that come with each new season. For my money, nothing beats the cozy, rich warmth of fall and winter. It's chilly outside, and chilly in parts of the house; the warmth of the living room is so much more luxurious in comparison, and the crack and snap of the fire, the smell of the wood, the glow of the embers are so sensual (as in, they affect all the senses) that we are all lulled and mellowed. Even our Loudest (you know who she is) is quiet for once. (Well, quiet-er.)

I'm so blessed. I always know it, but moments like this help me to really feel it. Isn't that the way it's supposed to work, after all? Knowing a thing in our minds is never enough, not for the long term: we need to feel it through our bodies as well. And so God gives us, among other things, cold days. Cold days, and a fire for warmth.

(This happiness and relief, for the record, is due entirely to the cold/warm dichotomy. It has nothing to do with the fact that Abbie is in diapers today, taking a break from potty-training. Really, it's all about the fire.)