Getting Out in the Weather
On the table: fading daffodils, edges ruffled, browning and dry. At my right on the side table: Martin's microphone, a snarl of wire, his big black laptop, two more daffodils, one withering and the other tightly closed, never to open. A rumpled blue and white dishtowel, gleaming brown bowl. Outside all is grey and rainy.
Martin just called to tell me that he was standing in a patch of sunlight on the ferry, on his way back from Edmonds where he just dropped off Bea and Eliora for a day at the Seattle zoo with Grandma. Here the sun is more of a trust issue--I know it's up there or we'd be dead. I trust it's somewhere up beyond the curtains of grey.
Truth is, I rarely pine for it as I did every winter for years in Pennsylvania. Here I get to be on the inside of a secret, and that secret compels me out of doors in my plum waterproof parka every day. To experience something makes it good--to sit and watch makes you depressed. Simple enough but key to finding contentment in a rainy country.
So today, after walking the girls to school in the rain, I took the long way home, tromping through the fields in my Bogs, listening to the creek murmur somewhere in a tangle of fallen tree branches and moss. I passed one person--that is to say, she passed me, earbuds in place, jogging up the other side of the street as I pushed myself up a hill. She muttered something about taking the dog next time so she'll be forced to run faster, and then she smoked me and disappeared into the distance.
No matter. I am coming to love the solitude. I'm not exactly Jane Austen's Miss Bennett tromping through the English countryside; I have no illusions about seeming elegant in my rain clothes as I cut through rather suburban looking neighborhoods. But the wind on my face is good. And when I get hot enough to throw off my hood, the rain on my cheeks feels fresh and reminds me that I must be made new every morning.
A major transition like the one we just experienced makes you feel new. Giving away or selling more than half of what you own and moving clear across the country, spending money like water, makes you feel new. Starting over makes you feel new. But it's not long before the house feels cluttered and groans with excess, and it's not long before I find my thoughts drifting toward what I don't have.
When our last reality was taken from us, it was wrenched away so suddenly that it was not hard to realize that we had only one choice to make if we wanted to choose joy: LET GO. Once we realized that, it was relatively easy to let go. But now, in the months after the adrenalin rush, when life settles to a murmur instead of a roar, it is hard to remember not to HOLD ON, especially (and strangely) to the things that are not yet revealed to us.
Nor do I want to wile away all the good moments wishing I could hold on, wishing I could know beyond doubt what will be mine. I want to get out there and walk in the weather, whatever it is, knowing that the walk holds unexpected moments of joy, the rain on my face, the sudden smell of lavender and soaked earth. That way, when I have to duck inside and face flowers that die on my table--because that's the way daily life goes, with all the things that never stay clean or easy, and when I'm tempted to curse the grey that fills the house--I'll remember how I knew the grey not long ago when I was out in it, and how it made greens brighter and smells more rounded and lovely.
*
(And. . .wait for it. There's sun coming in the window! I don't know what that means for the post celebrating grey I just wrote, but I'll take it. Martin's ferry sun just caught up with me here. I think I will celebrate by heating another pot of water and making some fresh tea. And living for an hour, as Merry said this morning, as a bohemian. She asked me what it meant and I said, "A bohemian is someone who just lives to enjoy life." She answered immediately, "Well, that's what life is all about, after all." She did some quick backpedaling after that, muttering about helping others, etc. And oh, dear, now my post has derailed into chatter. Better save myself and go get some tea.)
Martin just called to tell me that he was standing in a patch of sunlight on the ferry, on his way back from Edmonds where he just dropped off Bea and Eliora for a day at the Seattle zoo with Grandma. Here the sun is more of a trust issue--I know it's up there or we'd be dead. I trust it's somewhere up beyond the curtains of grey.
Truth is, I rarely pine for it as I did every winter for years in Pennsylvania. Here I get to be on the inside of a secret, and that secret compels me out of doors in my plum waterproof parka every day. To experience something makes it good--to sit and watch makes you depressed. Simple enough but key to finding contentment in a rainy country.
So today, after walking the girls to school in the rain, I took the long way home, tromping through the fields in my Bogs, listening to the creek murmur somewhere in a tangle of fallen tree branches and moss. I passed one person--that is to say, she passed me, earbuds in place, jogging up the other side of the street as I pushed myself up a hill. She muttered something about taking the dog next time so she'll be forced to run faster, and then she smoked me and disappeared into the distance.
 |
| Blodell Reserve, Bainbridge Island--thanks to Meredith Cockroft |
No matter. I am coming to love the solitude. I'm not exactly Jane Austen's Miss Bennett tromping through the English countryside; I have no illusions about seeming elegant in my rain clothes as I cut through rather suburban looking neighborhoods. But the wind on my face is good. And when I get hot enough to throw off my hood, the rain on my cheeks feels fresh and reminds me that I must be made new every morning.
A major transition like the one we just experienced makes you feel new. Giving away or selling more than half of what you own and moving clear across the country, spending money like water, makes you feel new. Starting over makes you feel new. But it's not long before the house feels cluttered and groans with excess, and it's not long before I find my thoughts drifting toward what I don't have.
When our last reality was taken from us, it was wrenched away so suddenly that it was not hard to realize that we had only one choice to make if we wanted to choose joy: LET GO. Once we realized that, it was relatively easy to let go. But now, in the months after the adrenalin rush, when life settles to a murmur instead of a roar, it is hard to remember not to HOLD ON, especially (and strangely) to the things that are not yet revealed to us.
Nor do I want to wile away all the good moments wishing I could hold on, wishing I could know beyond doubt what will be mine. I want to get out there and walk in the weather, whatever it is, knowing that the walk holds unexpected moments of joy, the rain on my face, the sudden smell of lavender and soaked earth. That way, when I have to duck inside and face flowers that die on my table--because that's the way daily life goes, with all the things that never stay clean or easy, and when I'm tempted to curse the grey that fills the house--I'll remember how I knew the grey not long ago when I was out in it, and how it made greens brighter and smells more rounded and lovely.
*
(And. . .wait for it. There's sun coming in the window! I don't know what that means for the post celebrating grey I just wrote, but I'll take it. Martin's ferry sun just caught up with me here. I think I will celebrate by heating another pot of water and making some fresh tea. And living for an hour, as Merry said this morning, as a bohemian. She asked me what it meant and I said, "A bohemian is someone who just lives to enjoy life." She answered immediately, "Well, that's what life is all about, after all." She did some quick backpedaling after that, muttering about helping others, etc. And oh, dear, now my post has derailed into chatter. Better save myself and go get some tea.)
Comments
An Uncle's nightmare; His lovely niece and her family dressed in saffron robes, shaved heads and pony tails, aggravating people at the Seattle International AIrport.
Whew!
I remember an old joke by Jim Stafford, an old country singer/comedian about his people belonging to the Church where when you die, your souls go up on the porch roof and you can't get them down. Or Flip Wilson, one of my favorites doing his "Rev" routine for the Church of What's Happening Now.
I don't think you two will be doing Kumba Ya from the front.
If you do, then please don't tell me about it.