Part 1: Thermal Memory
Last summer, I moved to Kansas City from Boston on a 100-degree day. The heat was immediate and overwhelming to my system. During those summer days, my wife encouraged me to read Thermal Delight in Architecture by Lisa Heschong.
The book reconnected me to a world where moving from one space to another wasn’t just about function but about feeling, where warmth and coolness weren’t controlled away by thermostats but embraced as part of daily rhythm and ritual.
Heschong writes:
“Thermal pleasure exists when a person’s body is momentarily more comfortable because of a deliberate or anticipated change in the thermal environment.”
I thought of my childhood and stories from my siblings about our ancestral home in Ilocos Norte, Philippines. They loved to recount those long, hot summer days—especially the ritual of running upstairs during twilight and squeezing into the deep window sills to catch a breeze. The breeze of a towering acacia tree filtered the remains of the day—sweet and steady—was a kind of magic.
Now, in a different climate and rhythm, I’ve found myself tuning back into these kinds of moments. During these winter months in Kansas City, I notice myself gravitating toward the sunniest spot in our office, soaking in the brightness and warmth as the light moves across the floor. It’s a quiet ritual, but one that reminds me how deeply our bodies respond to the thermal qualities of space.
These thermal memories—whether shaped by humid heat or winter sun—are more than nostalgia. They’re part of a pattern I continue to notice in my daily life. They’re a kind of dialogue between body and building, between memory and sensation.
But how often do we design with that in mind? What happens when architecture isn’t just built for temperature control, but to invite thermal experience? In the next part of this series, I’ll explore how architecture can be intentionally shaped to evoke thermal delight—not just as comfort but as an essential part of how we feel space.
