I love the cold. Winter (and to a lesser degree Autumn) is when I can finally spend more time outside, because the sun isn’t persistently menacing my burn-prone skin and all the floral aggressors that trigger my seasonal allergies are dead.

Thus, I flourish when the temperatures drop, and my ideal climate is somewhere between that of Milwaukee (where I live now) and that of Reykjavík (where I’ve happily lived previously).

That said, it got down to -32 F (with windchill) the other day, every flat surface has been covered in an inch-thick slick of ice for what feels like months, and the sun has graced us with only periodic and fleeting visits since November, which is doing a number on everyone’s mood.

As a result, there have been times these past few weeks that I’ve thought about Spring and Summer with surprising fondness, bordering on longing.

A little warmth would be nice. Being able to run around the neighborhood (without needing ice skates) would be great. It might be cool to see a blue sky again at some point.

I know from experience that the heat, the humidity, the mosquitos and pollen and skin-sizzling radiation from that devil-star in the sky will not be at all pleasant for me when it arrives in force. But I also know that longing for what we don’t currently have is part of the human condition.

When I was traveling full-time, my deepest desire was to hold still, have a close group of local friends to regularly meet up with, have a familiar grocery store and coffee shop I could visit, and to own possessions of convenience (a foam roller, a rice maker, a nice pillow) that I couldn’t justify trying to cram into my carry-on bag.

Now that I have a life here in Milwaukee, and now that I have friends and familiar, local places to visit, now that I have a nice pillow, a foam roller, and a rice maker, I long for the open road. I miss the constant torrent of novelty, the surprises and discomforts, the situational simplicity that’s near-impossible to replicate when holding still for any amount of time.

At times these sorts of longings, these cravings, are meaningful. At times they represent the surfacing of deep-rooted self-knowledge that we may be well-served to flag, honor, and perhaps even act upon.

There are other times, though, when they are merely manifestations of our latent human condition.

We want what we don’t have because we are wanting, craving, coveting machines. It’s our default setting. The only reason we don’t also want what we already have is that we already have it.

Recognizing this latent state of wantingness isn’t easy or reflexive, but I find that attempting to filter the valuable, informational cravings from the reflexive, instinctual ones makes it more likely that I invest myself in worthwhile, fulling changes and acquisitions rather than spending all my time and resources flailing around, desperately grabbing at anything I don’t currently possess in the hope that this next new whatever will be what finally solves all my problems and makes my life perfect.

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