Last night I stepped out of the cold and into a gallery, from the elements into the elemental. It was one of the chilliest nights we’ve had for a long time, and I was beginning to question the wisdom of taking a bus and a Metro into D.C. then walking for blocks in the subfreezing windchill.

But once we stepped into the gallery, all hesitations vanished. Here were portraits and landscapes, collages and sculptures. Here was a thoughtful still life, the surprise of two metal hands hanging from the ceiling, a tiny macramé-like canvas of punctured threads. Here was the human imagination in all its weirdness and glory.

It wasn’t just the art that banished the cold. It was the warmth of visiting with a friend I hadn’t seen in years, and finding her just the same except, I think, more content. And that was the loveliest sight of all.