I once spent a few winter months living in a cabin in the woods.

It was around this time of year that I moved in. It was late fall, nearly winter. Cold. Quiet.

The cabin was located near the edge of a large lake. There was a small house up the lane. But no trees or bushes to impede my view from the front door to the pebbly beach and beyond.

Looking from the beach across the wide, expansive lake – already half frozen though it was only November – there were cottages. Most were closed for the winter. Sensibly.

I still recall that winter as one of the calmest I’ve ever had.

The beauty of the place was not only the quiet and isolation. It had a lot to do with the quality and color of the light. The light was filtered through a gauzy land fog in the early morning.

In the late afternoon, driving down the lakeshore road showcased a light palette of golden hues in the sky. The long shadow of shoreline trees laid across the surface of the frozen lake.

Fortunately, there were just enough landlocked residents in the area to justify plowing local roads. If not, I would have been looking to rent a snowmobile for my shopping expeditions.

What I remember most fondly was the peace and quiet of that little cabin. It wasn’t what you would call luxurious. A better description would be utilitarian. Galley kitchen. Three small bedrooms. A bathroom and living room. And cold.

I started using the bedrooms as extra storage space. It was just about the right temperature for keeping produce fresh. I eschewed all three for sleeping and parked myself on the futon close to the heater. I would rather have died from carbon monoxide poisoning than hypothermia.

On one memorable occasion I took a bath in the blue cast iron bathtub. To make it tolerably warm, I heated two enormous spaghetti pots of water on the stove.

I threw the boiling water into the tub one after the other and heated up another two batches. The boiling water kept the tub warm just long enough to get an acceptable two inches of hot water out of the faucet. As you might imagine, the bath was soon abandoned for quick showers.

In the mornings, long, lazy days stretched out in front of me. The sun rose lazily across the lake and I followed suit. A hot cup of tea. A book to read. High density memory foam slippers to ward off frostbite. Wrapped in one of those ubiquitous afghan square throws. My lie-ins were part laziness and part self-preservation until the propane heater kicked in.

I felt safe enough to get up and move around the cabin once my breath stopped steaming in the crisp, morning air. What we may have experienced as something of a trial when it was happening can soften in recounting the experience. It is the lessons we take away from any challenging situation that we hold on to, if we’re lucky.

It is coming on winter. By contrast to times past, it is sunny and warm most days and so it will remain in the coming months. That has its own charm. I am no longer living alone but sharing my space and life with a special someone.

When I wake up these days, I am grateful for all that is available to me. What I can remember fondly about that winter of isolation was the solitude and beauty of the physical environment I was nestled in. I can hardly remember any details about the numbing cold and all the other cold weather living challenges.

After all, I survived them and landed here. It’s pleasant to have memories of that long, cold, beautiful winter to look back on. Even better is that it reminds me to create new and beautiful ones where I am now. These days will be what I will look back on years from now.

It reminds me to make today the best it can be so I can enjoy the memories I am able to recall in the future. That must be growth.

I don’t recall consciously thinking to much when I was younger that today I would be making my memories of yesterday to revisit.

I am much better about doing that now.