"Sure as I'm breathing. Sure as I'm sad. I'll keep this wisdom in my flesh. I leave here believing more than I had. This love has got no ceiling"

North of Omnodelger: February

I crunched uphill.  My boots the first to scathe the undisturbed snow.  Snow that fell months ago.  Dakraa was paces ahead of me, occasionally slowing and asking if I was tired or cold.  Marching uphill for the past hour with the heavy Mongolian deel and boots I was tired, and with temperatures in the negative forties I was cold.  These discomforts I didn't express to Dakraa though, I'd smile dutifully and assure him I was fine.  So we trudged upwards, towards some distant crest.  Passing by sparse trees I'd brush my hand along their branches as I passed.  It'd been so long since I had been around so many in one place.

We left hours earlier, stepping out into the cold from Tuya's mother's ger at the base of the Khentii Mountains.  Stepped out into the hodoo, the countryside, the backlands of Mongolia.  Tuya's mother, older brother, and two sisters, were nomads.  They dwelt miles outside the confines of Omnodelger, alone, save for the animals they herded.  When the livestock had expended the area's grass, they'd get up and move again.  I was invited to the solitude to help make preparations for the coming holiday Tsagaan Sar.  After an hour or so of pressing, kneading, and stretching dough Dawkraa grabbed up his rifle and exclaimed joyfully, "come Justin, lets go hunting."  As we exited the ger I saw Tuya shoot her husband a sidelong glance as if to say "typical".  Slinging the weapon over his shoulder I looked at him curiously, "What will we hunt?" I asked.  He just shrugged at me, "It doesn't matter."  I laughed nervously aloud at the prospect of marching off into the wild with a trigger happy Dakraa.  I thought better of trying to explain how hunting laws in New Jersey worked and how he'd surely be violating all of them and just mimicked his shrug of indifference and followed him up towards the mountains.

As we journeyed heading up the mountain's western face,  Dakraa began hooting and hollering into the void.  We hadn't encountered a living creature since setting out, making Dakraa's hunting rifle just a heavy prop.  He continued shouting hoping to stir some creature from its stationary roust.  Suddenly he stopped his whooping and called me to his side.  "There," he pointed, "a fat bird."  It certainly was.  Perched on a branch a couple dozen yards away, I could make out the silhouette of a  bird, with a large round body and tiny head, I was shocked the branch held its bulbous frame.  It was like a beach ball with a head.  "Here," Dakraa said, extending the rifle towards me.  The lack of chicken in my diet for sometime compelled me to take the weapon from him.  I crouched and held my breathe as I tried to judge the shot as best I could.  It wasn't fair that the bird was allowed to be so gluttonous, I would impart his sin unto me.  Pulling the trigger, I heard the thud of metal against wood and saw bark shear from the bird's tree.  Startled, it fluttered off towards the setting sun.  Dakraa laughed behind me.  I stood up and growled under my breath, I was less angry with my embarrassing shot then the fact that the bird, in its obese state was actually able to take flight.  Handing the gun back to Dakraa we set out at our continued pace towards the top of the mountain.

He stopped when we finally reached the summit.  Turning and gesturing for me to hurry up, I sprinted the last couple paces and was met with a mind boggling view.  Our small mountain gave way to a never ending expanse of ones just like it.  They were so vast and expansive that many seemed like mere bumps in the distance.  No roads, power lines, buildings or semblance of infrastructure could be seen anywhere.  Distant forests looked miniature and blurry, the horizon expanded to a hazy white.  If the landscape was daunting, the sky was even more so.  Mongolia's nickname "The Land of the Eternal Blue Sky" rang as true as ever.  A wash of spectacular blue that dwarfed the land it covered.  It seemed there was nothing blocking me from floating away into the blue void.  I was overcome with a feeling of being alone on the top of the world and I resisted the euphoric impulse to yell at the top of my lungs.  "Khentii,"  Dakraa said with a gesture of his hand, sweeping it towards the view that lay before us.  "Its beautiful," I answered just above a whisper.  He chuckled at my stupefied reaction, "Yes, it is," he said with an air that suggested he'd seen it a million times before.  "Lets go," he added and began trekking towards the mountains western rim.  I hung back until his footsteps had faded, until the silence engulfed me, a quiet so encompassing you can almost hear it.  I couldn't take my eyes away from the view, I snapped a picture, then followed in Dakraa's wake.

The sun was all but set as we neared Tuya's mother's ger that evening.  We had been gone the better part of the day.  As we got closer to the tiny round structure I saw a figure step outside.  It was Tuya, discarding some dirty dish water.  Uh oh, I thought remembering her look from earlier.  Dakraa's going to get it for being out so late, leaving them to work all day.  She looked up and to my surprise her face lit up as she saw us approach.  Quickening his pace to meet her, he stopped a step from her and with just as an animated expression as her's he began excitedly rattling off the events of the day.  She let him speak, without saying a word, just smiling up at him.  I'd never seen them show any kind of affection towards one another before but in that moment he took up one of her hands in his as he chattered on, playfully swinging it back and forth.  Suddenly, I took an unconscious step back.  Like my presence was somehow ruining the perfect moment.  The surprise of it all made me feel sentimental and cliche.  In a world where people marry for money, prestige, and insurance, here were two people in a small corner of our planet who had none of those things to fall on.  As I caught some words, Dakraa retold how I missed the fat bird then mimed my facial expression as I stood dumbfounded in front of the extensive mountains and endless sky.  Tuya made some jest back at him and they both went giggling and stumbling over each other as they ducked back into the ger.  At that moment I realized how much they really care about each, how lucky I am to live next to such warmhearted people, to share in their relationship.  It amazes me everyday, the things I learn from this place.

Love, like Mongolia, has no ceiling.

Congratulations Kelly and Sean.

"Sittin' down here, fallout shelter. Paint my walls, twice a week."

"Justin!"
Over the howl of the wind I could hear Tuya calling from behind me.
"Come here, hurry!"
I struggled to hold the camera steady, to take one more picture. I could taste the grit of sand and dirt on my tongue. The acrid smoke filled my nostrils. It stung my eyes and burned my throat. The wind had changed again. Blowing north. Sending it hurdling forward on a collision course with Omnodelger. Someone do something! I pleaded in my head.
"Justin! Quickly!"
I turned and ran back to where Tuya was standing, struggling to close the gate against the wind. Inside the small enclosure housed the towns meteorological instruments. Having taken the pictures like she instructed me to, I rushed to her side to help close the gate.
"This happens sometimes" she said. "Its very windy, its moving very fast," she exclaimed as the gate clanged shut.
"I'm scared," she said.
"Me too," was all I could answer.

Earlier that morning

Spring in Mongolia is windy, very windy. Occasionally this wind manifests itself in the form of dust storms or in the Gobi Desert, sandstorms. Flying dirt, sand, grit, and pebbles propelling themselves into your body and face is unpleasant. Thats why I was content to let the wind rock my ger while I hunkered inside and worked on making exams one Saturday morning. It was around eleven o'clock when I decided to brave the gusts for a much needed bathroom break. I made it several strides before I stopped dead in my tracks in the center of my yard. The "eternal blue sky" was marred by an enormous plume of smoke. It poured upwards, ominously billowing out, its clouds rolling and expanding, threatening to blotch out the sun. My bathroom break now forgotten I ran over to the fence that separates my hashaa and climbed onto it to get a better look. The steppe was alight. The tall grasses burning wildly outwards in a dark menacing circle. There was no one else around to express my concerns to, the streets were quiet save for the roaring wind. I jumped down from my perch and scurried over to Dakraa's. Tried the door. Locked. Since living in Mongolia I've grown accustomed to tolerating things that seem out of the ordinary or dangerous. But I needed to know if this was normal. Banging on the door fruitlessly, I realized there was no one home.

Ducking back inside my ger I grabbed up my phone and texted Tuya asking what was going on. As I attempted to make myself lunch waiting for a reply I tried justifying the fire in my head. Mongolians are always burning trash, maybe its Super Trash Day? I can't be the only one to have noticed it. It must be controlled? Right? A familiar sound tore through the air, giving me my answer.

Air raid sirens.

Blaring somewhere from my towns center, they wailed their warning of imminent danger. The knife I was holding landed with a clang onto the cutting board as I burst back out into daylight and climbed back atop my perch. The sight I was met with shocked me. The wind had accelerated the fire at an alarming rate. In the fifteen or so minutes since I had been inside, the fire had spread, defining the topography of the steppe with blackened grass and scorched earth. From my high and distant position I could actually see it moving. The ring turning the steppe black, crawling towards Omnodelger. As I gaped, my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was Tuya. After translating I laughed nervously aloud at her reply, reading her message only added to the drama.  "A mighty conflagration is coming, stay there, I'm coming." When Tuya finally arrived some minutes later, she told me that the soum's men would go out to fight the fire. I clutched for my jacket and stood up asking where I could meet them. "No, she said, I need your help," shaking her head. "Please watch Misheel, I must go to work and check the wind."

So I sat on the floor of my ger with six year old Misheel and we played shagai. She hummed and giggled to herself as she played, the air raid sirens continued to blare their warning outside. I put on a smile and tried not to let on my concerns. Ten minutes later Tuya was back with her mother. "Justin, please bring your camera and come to work with me, I need your help." So we left Misheel with her mother and began walking briskly towards the edge of town. "If it gets close we will go to my mother's home in the countryside" she said as we reached the tiny fenced in area holding all of the Soviet hand-me-down weather predicting elements. We were closer to it now, smoke billowed and poured over the gentle hills of the steppe. The wind whipped wisps of grey and black through the air. It looked apocalyptic. She instructed me to take as many pictures as I could while she read her instruments. I jogged out several paces closer to the blaze and began snapping away.   How would they put a stop to it? Omnodelger has no fire department, no trucks, not even a consistent water supply.  

Minutes later we were headed back towards my ger.  Tuya had me e-mail her wind statistics and the pictures I took to a meteorologist in the closest town to the south.  "A warning," she said sternly.  I took it as it served as a way for them to be prepared if it started heading in their direction.  To this day I still don't know how the blaze was stopped.   Later Bolormaa and Munkhkherlen came bursting into my ger coughing and exhausted.  They too had been called to combat the fire.  I gave them tea and made soup, feeling guilty that my role was so minor in assisting our tiny town.  They explained that Omnodelger was safe now, the fire was under control and nothing was damaged save for a garbage dump just outside of town.  The fire, they said was probably started by a careless herder, tending his flock and discarding a dying cigarette.

The next morning a smoky haze could still be seen lingering over the steppe.  The dark blackened smear ending mere yards away from the closest hashaa.  I couldn't help but reflecting that months before I was praising fire, our ability to harness it, how it warms us, fights the unforgiving cold, makes us comfortable and safe.  The scarred landscape outside of Omnodelger serves as a reminder that it has the power to take all that away.

"Ah Mary. She'll bake you cookies then she'll burn your town. Ah Mary. Ashes ashes but she won't fall down."

New Jersey, United States of America

I could feel my heart racing, my palms getting sweaty. The Best Buy clerk looking at me expectantly, presenting two of the fifty options for headphones in each of his hands. He started repeating maybe for the tenth time what all of the different varieties did. Wireless ones, not wireless ones, Bluetooth ones, ones with microphones, ones without, ones that "lock" in your ear, black ones, red ones, white ones, ones that apparently massage your neck while you listen. I screamed inside my head, Christ, I just want to hear my music! I wanted to apologize, somehow explain my indecisive breakdown. How I'd been in a place for ten months where when I went in a store and asked for something the clerk hands me the one option there is, I smile, say thank you, slap money on the counter and I'm out the door.

Up until this point I felt like I had handled the reverse culture shock well, that I hadn't been affected by the re-acclamation from an underdeveloped country back into a developed one. New things like phones that talk to you and make your life choices and little pods of Tide laundry detergent (Tidepod?) amused me rather then made my head spin trying to comprehend them. People often asked, "Is it weird being back?" The only answer I could give that sums up my feelings best was it feels familiar but entirely unfamiliar. I went home knowing I would appreciate my mother country all the more. Things like running water, constant electricity, and climate control were much more well received then when I left. Those things I expected though. What I didn't expect was how much more the consumerism stuck out, the advertising, the countless options of everything from headphones to toothpicks. Is this one of the many ways America stays on top? Is this why Mongolians I associate with hold my country in such awe? Why the average American can't place Mongolia on a map? I chuckle at the thought of having Dakraa or one of my coworkers standing beside me in the mall, just to watch their reaction.

Being home, while giving me new perspective also refreshed me beyond measure. My fears about whether or not I'd appear different in my family and friends eyes seemed to extinguish the minute I stepped back in my house. Everyone seemed the same, and I hope I seemed the same to them too. Within days it was like I had never left. Old routines with people I shared my time with ten months ago were the same. I only wish I had more time. I felt as though I wanted to see everyone all the time all at once. The two weeks back in New Jersey was just what I needed. The generosity and curiosity of the people I care most about surprised and humbled me. I'm so blessed to have so much love coming from two continents. So to my friends and my family you have all my gratitude. I hope to see you all next time I cross the gap.

"I'm crossing the gap on my way home. Above my head just sky and stone. Cross the river from the Jersey side. At the end of a long, long ride."

Beijing, China

I stare out the window. My own music blares in my ears. I can't hear the people passing by. No matter, they speak neither English nor Mongolian. No one pays notice to me. An American in China is no strange thing. Beijing is no Omnodelger. The airport itself could swallow my little town whole. These thoughts seem minor compared to the destination at hand.

Home.

Its never seemed so exotic. Like the roles of the two major places in my life have been flipped. In my impending days before departing for Mongolia I daydreamed of my life there. How I'd live, things I'd do, and people I'd meet. Now the days leading up to this moment have been filled of daydreams of America. Food, friends and family, good beer, warm showers. Places I used to frequent and people I used to share company with. Would it all still be there? Would I see the USA through new eyes? Would people think me different? Most daunting of all, how could I ever begin to share my experiences to those back home I care most about? How could I make them understand? Make Mongolia not just a place on a map anymore? The anticipation of seeing those I loved again burned my brain and kept me awake. I gazed out the window, watching the ground crew prep the massive 777 aircraft that would carry me across the Pacific Ocean.
Carry me across continents.
Carry me home.

"Mama raised me to be honest, she taught me well. Living high up in a castle, she said, "Climb that hill."

Jerusalem, Israel: 2009

I stared in awe up at the Dome of the Rock. The massive mosque, with its golden cap and intricate mosaic walls was a feast for the eyes. It was one of the most beautiful structures I'd ever seen. I ran my eyes over the Arabic verses along the facade and down its electric blue columns again and again. Standing there on the Temple Mount my senses were alive, the air smelled crisp and clean, the sun glistened off the mosque's golden dome, Arabic chanting echoed in my ears as the faithful had begun being called to prayer. My revelry was shattered as I caught the sight of three armed soldiers marching in my direction, pointing at the exit to the Temple Mount and shouting in very stern Arabic. I quickly slinked towards the exit, stealing one last glance of the mosque over my shoulder as I left. The forbidden aura adding further to its wonder. The picture was clear, it was prayer time, I was a non-Muslim. I would be no where near religious practices, no matter how interesting or how beautiful I thought they were.

Khutul, Mongolia

I squinted through my own foggy breath as I stared out towards the rising sun. Outside of my host family's Khutul apartment it was the first day of Tsagaan Sar(White Month), Mongolian Lunar New Year. A time for renewal, rebirth, and connecting with those closest to you. I strained my eyes further, in the distance I could make out the tiny figures of people walking up a far off mountain. Scores headed uphill, making a pilgrimage to the top to pay respects at an ovoo, a religious totem of rocks and colored silk that crown the tops of many peaks and summits. The sun illuminated the white ice and snow. Watching the dozens of black silhouettes march upwards towards the sky was mesmerizing.

"Justin brother."

Jagaa, my host brother, nudged me on the arm. "Please, read again." Apologizing, I looked down at the piece of paper my host mother had sent me outside with. A special prayer she had written down just for me and my birth year, the year of the rabbit. I began repeating the few lines yet again. The Tibetan chant was unfamiliar on my tongue, which had only grown accustomed to Mongolian. Jagaa quickly helped me sound out each word. "Follow me", he said taking my wrist as we started the chant again. To the unfamiliar onlooker it appeared as if we zigged and zagged in nonsensical direction, I learned earlier that these steps were necessary to starting my new year and went hand in hand with the prayer that reverberated from my lips. The ritual having finished, we marched back up the steps to my family's third floor apartment. Three rooms with bathtub and toilet, these luxuries were a far cry from how we lived together in Orkhon, my former village only 15 minutes away. My host mother and youngest brother rented the apartment every winter so my brother could attend Khutul's private school. As we reentered, I was greeted by the bustling sight of my host mother, scurrying from room to room to throw a bowlful of milk out each window, up towards the sky. The ritual, one repeated during many occasions is an offering for safety and good fortune. Milk, a sacred liquid, for its symbolic color is often used. As the last bowlful was tossed skywards, the family gathered in the living room, lining up in front of the tiny altar. Adorned with candles, incense, an idol of Buddha, pictures of the Dalai Lama, and a small copper prayer wheel, my host family assembled oldest to youngest, each taking turns bowing and praying in front of the religious objects. I watched, grateful to just be present to witness their worship, something so unfamiliar from my own. When Mogi had finished spinning the tiny prayer wheel three times he turned to me. "Justin brother, it is your turn." Taken aback, I didn't know how to respond. My host mother urged me forward in front of the altar. "I don't know how," I exclaimed, "I am a Christian, is this okay?" My mother only chuckled at me, "Of course, just think about the new year." Hands clasped I bowed my head and closed my eyes. I thought about my family back home, my friends I left behind, the new family crowded around me, and the new friends I'd made living across the steppe. I wished good fortune on all of them. As I lifted my head and opened my eyes, I stepped forward and spun the tiny copper wheel three times. The metal was warm to the touch.

It may seem a peculiar thing, but moving into a culture so much different then the one I came from I often compare my time spent those first three months in Orkhon as being born again. I was taught right from wrong, I learned to speak, how to cook, clean, and build a fire, how to survive the winter, and how to keep myself safe. My host family essentially raised me to be a half competent resident of Mongolia in only three months. It touches me to my core when I realize the shared impact we've had in each others lives. What they've shown me since I arrived in a land both scary and beautiful has been nothing short of love and compassion. People I know I can always turn to when I feel like Mongolia could swallow me whole. Words neither written nor said could describe the gratitude I have for them.

After three days of feasting, card games, and visiting Orkhon, friends, more family, and my teacher it was finally time to say goodbye. Hugging my brothers goodbye, they made one last attempt to get me to stay longer. If only travel were that easy. As I said goodbye to my host mother she hugged me and waved me out the door, "I will throw milk for you", she exclaimed as the door shut behind me. Trudging out towards the oversized van that would carry me back towards Ulaanbaatar, I stole a glance over my shoulder. My host mother stood at the apartment window making good on her promise. Holding a bowl in her hand she prepared to give an offering for my safe journey. She smiled and waved at me, then with a flick of her wrist and a small gasp she sent milk towards the heavens. It sparkled in the sun as it fell.

"Sometimes it gets a little rough. Like wheels made of steel going uphill mountain. Better stand tall, if you're gonna stand at all. And if you're gonna fall, well you might as well fall."

I reread the text message thinking I misunderstood. My Mongolian is bad, but its not that bad. I read it loud and clear. Shijirbaatar was telling me that today there was no coal. What I didn't understand was how that could be so. I pass the behemoth pile I leech my coal from every day outside the school. The huge black megalithic chunks casting shadows on me as I stride past, looking up longingly. The massive hoard of fuel only seems to laugh back at me, I'm at the mercy of my school, which chooses to spoon feed me portions of coal by the wheelbarrow full, once or twice a week. After four days of pestering Shijirbaatar that my supply was dangerously low, I was now running on empty. I silently cursed the spring for not coming sooner, and for Tsagaan Sar, the Mongolia holiday fast approaching next week which surely has kept every Mongolian in my soum busy. Deciding it would be fruitless to give Shijirbaatar a weather and temperature reminder, I step outside to assess my fuel situation. Going out into the fading evening light I sigh at the sight before me, a few meager branches make up the last of my wood stockpile, that main source of fuel also near depleted. My coal pile is even more pitiful, merely a black stain in the snow where coal once sat. I kicked the dust in frustration, how could something seemly so easy to fix be so difficult. I needed help. I'm lucky to have so many allies. Marching past Dakraa's limitless pile of wood I entered my neighbor's house, pulling the door shut against the snow and wind behind me.

"Yasan be?" (What's the matter?) Tuya greeted me, sensing my mood and expression. She stopped mid-meat carving, telling me to sit down and brought me tea. In the background Misheel, her six year old daughter waved at me from the floor in front of the TV. I smile and wave back. Janii, our teenage neighbor boy tinkered on the computer, barely acknowledging my presence. I showed Tuya the message I got. "There is coal at the school", she said confused, "why did he say that?" I told her I didn't know and explained I didn't understand and was frustrated. She pondered a moment then gave a sidelong glance at Janii, still lost in his computer game, oblivious to her gaze. "Today is very cold and very windy", she muttered to herself, glancing out the window at her house's cache of wooden logs and branches.

"Janii" she said.

"Go chop wood."

I'm warm tonight.

"Have no fear, for when I'm alone. I'll be better off, then I was before. I've got this light, I'll be around to grow. Who I was before I cannot recall."

When I was a boy there were two school subjects you could often find me reading ahead in the school textbook. History, of course, and literature. From as far back as I can remember one author was always included in that required tome, whatever the year, whatever the grade, Jack London. So as my teacher would drone on about some dry love affair in Wuthering Heights, I was in the Yukon, the wilderness, the frontier. London would take me on dangerous, thrilling, adventures. I still enjoy reading them today. One short story always struck me as my favorite, "To Build a Fire". A man and his dog are traveling alone in the north Canadian wilderness. Its winter, its cold, very cold. Through folly of his own the man missteps and his foot plunges through ice, soaking his leg. The temperatures are extreme, time is of the essence, he must build a fire. Misfortune befalls the man a second time when his first fire is accidentally snuffed out. He becomes frantic in his attempts to build a second fire knowing that delaying has already cost him his toes. I remember reading London's words, getting caught up in the man's desperation. I could almost feel the cold, almost see my breath materialize as I turned the pages. His hands now too numb to strike matches or break branches or even throttle his own dog to use its intestines for warmth, he makes one final effort to save himself. He runs, in denial that the exertion will warm his body, he finally gets tired and drifts into a final frozen sleep. All because he couldn't make a fire. Awestruck by the tale I remember closing the book and thinking something along the lines of "My God, I hope I never have to experience cold like that."

I grew up in a temperate climate, summers were hot and winters were cold. I'd play outside in the snow with my brother and neighbors till our noses were red and our cheeks stung. I remember coming inside our warm house afterwards to a cup of hot chocolate my mom would have waiting for me. At my grandmother's house it was always our special ritual, starting that first fire of the winter in her fireplace. We'd huddle around the hearth and she'd let me light the newspapers that would ignite the kindling, she'd even throw in special minerals to make the flames change vibrant colors. I'd sit dazzled and amazed, what an entertaining thing fire was. Snow, the cold, warm fires, it was a novelty, something that came around briefly once a year that you enjoyed. It meant days off of school, days experiencing the outdoors in a different way. It was never unbearable, it never scared me.

Then I moved to Vermont. Winters were longer, and colder. With the destituteness that comes with being a college student in an old apartment I spend the better part of the year huddled around a space heater. It couldn't have been less then fifty degrees in our apartment, but it was cold to me then. Walks to classes were taken at a quick pace and bundled up. It was cold, colder then I'd ever experienced previously but it was still doable. I still went out on weekends, I still walked downtown, but it certainly made me ready for summers a lot sooner. After graduation and my final summer at work drew to a close, I drove back home to New Jersey for the last time. I remember chuckling to myself as I headed south down the highway, the Green Mountains at my back, "Well at least I'll never have to be in cold like that again." The irony hasn't escaped me now.

Today I live in a ger, a yurt, a glorified tent. A round structure with a wooden skeleton and a sheep felt exterior. It is a sanctuary I've grown to love and make my own. I might dare say it may be my favorite place that I've hung my hat, so to speak. For all its romantic primal appeal it is not without its disadvantages. Mongolians have lived in gers for centuries, before the time of Ghengis Khan and up until the present day. A cozy space that keeps in warmth, but without special attention and care to that source of heat, the cold quickly creeps in. Cold that I've never felt or could have imagined before. My sanctuary freezes overnight or during prolonged periods of absence. Water, toothpaste, cooking oil, fruits and vegetables, milk and liquid soap. They all freeze. Cracking open my eyelids each morning, often times the first thing I see is my own breath. It is hard to will myself to get out of bed. When the wind rolls through the steppes and the temperature plummets further still, getting around town is excruciating. Walking from Point A to Point B, often distances of less then one hundred yards, is taken nearly at a running pace. Nostrils, face, and eyelids sting, extremities numb, and ice forms on facial hair. My body seems to scream "Get inside you fool!" I do with the utmost urgency. I tell you all this not for pity or praise but for recognition, I've been living here for a mere eight months. The people I have come to know have lived here they're whole lives. Enduring the same extremes every year. They do it and they survive. I look at the bundled up figure of a six year old and realize they're more hardened then I'll ever be.

I stand just inside my school's doors, poised to endure the elements. Ready to go home for the evening, I pull on my gloves and secure my hat. I stare at the wooden double doors, a testament to the fact that the cold can batter through any defense. Every crevice between the frames is encased in ice and snow. The wind swept draft entombing the wood in a frozen prison. The door and the walls sparkle with ice crystals. The glass above long obstructed by water turned solid. I take a breath and push out into the night.

I'm home, crouched in the center of my ger. Huddled next to my stove, I'm going through a ritual I go through multiple times everyday. A ritual I've come to appreciate: gathering wood, breaking up paper and cardboard, emptying ash. The stove, my lifeline, my key to survival. The creation of one of our universes oldest elements. I've never appreciated it more. My world is frozen, it will take time to thaw. It is warmer in my refrigerator then where I am sitting. I crouch, blowing on the hot coals, the blaze grows, the wood ignites to a therapeutic crackle. I smile in satisfaction, it's all okay, I'm okay, all because.....

bi gal tulj chadna.
(I can build a fire)