The Weather of It

Somewhere along the way we decided the weather owed us something.

Not much, perhaps. Just seventy-two degrees, a light breeze, blue skies, low humidity, no wind, no rain until nighttime, and certainly no snow unless it falls on a weekend when we have nowhere to be.

The forecast has become a scorecard for our happiness.

Too hot.Too cold.Too windy.Too humid.Too rainy.Too gray.Too much pollen.Not enough sunshine.

Listen carefully to any gathering of people, and before long the weather will be put on trial, as though it has failed us personally.

What an impossible job we have given the sky.

The strange part is that the weather never promised to make us comfortable. It simply promised to be weather.

Clouds have never apologized for arriving. Rain has never explained itself. The wind has never stopped to ask whether we had plans for our hair. Winter has never sent a note saying, “I’m sorry this inconveniences you.”

Only we seem to believe that the world should rearrange itself around our preferences.

And while we’re busy arguing with the sky, something else quietly slips away.

The day. If every day isn’t allowed to be a good day because it doesn’t meet our conditions, how many days are we actually giving ourselves?

Half?

A third?

Only those perfect afternoons that look like postcards?

The calendar doesn’t care whether the sun shines. It keeps turning its pages anyway.

Years ago I realized I had become an expert at wishing away winter.

The moment the last leaves dropped in autumn, I began counting.

Only four months until spring.

Three months.

Eight weeks.

Six weeks.

Every snowfall felt like another delay before life could begin again.

Then one day it struck me with uncomfortable clarity.

I had spent decades wishing away half my life.

Not because anything terrible had happened.

Simply because I didn’t like being cold.

Imagine handing back years to the universe unopened because the temperature wasn’t to your liking.

That realization changed me in the simplest way imaginable.

I stopped trying to survive winter and started dressing for it.

I bought tall boots that kept my feet warm. Long coats that wrapped around my knees. Thick socks. Better gloves. A hat that actually covered my ears instead of looking fashionable except it was!

Warm at last.

It turned out I hadn’t disliked winter nearly as much as I disliked being unprepared for it.

Funny how often our complaints disappear once we stop expecting the world to change and become willing to change ourselves.

The snow had never been the problem.

Neither had the wind.

Nor the rain.

The problem was my resistance to them.

And something remarkable happened once I stopped fighting the seasons.

They became beautiful again.

Not beautiful in spite of themselves.

Beautiful because of themselves.

The silence after fresh snow.

The sharp smell before rain.

Fog rolling over a field like a secret trying not to wake anyone.

The first truly hot day that reminds you your body is still wonderfully alive.

A storm that rearranges the air.

The low winter sun stretching shadows farther than they seem they should reach.

Every kind of weather carries its own language.

The earth has never repeated itself.

A few weeks ago our skies turned orange from the smoke drifting south from the Canadian wildfires.

Of course there was reason for concern, and I understood where it came from.

But I also noticed something else.

The world looked entirely different.

The mornings glowed as though someone had painted them with copper. Even familiar streets looked unfamiliar. Light arrived in a color I had never seen before.

I could have spent every moment annoyed by it.

Instead, whenever I had time to be outside, I found myself looking up.

Wondering.

Not because I wanted orange skies forever.

But because I realized I was witnessing something I had never witnessed before.

Life doesn’t ask us to pretend difficult things are pleasant.

It simply asks whether we will notice that beauty continues to exist beside them.

There is a quiet freedom in no longer demanding that every day arrive wrapped exactly the way we ordered it.

Some days are cloudy.

Some are gray.

Some arrive dripping with rain.

Others crackle with heat.

Some disappear into fog.

Some carry the scent of salt, or pine, or wet pavement.

Each one comes only once.

Every single day is making its only appearance.

Why spend it negotiating with the clouds?

The weather is not happening to us.

It is simply happening.

We are the ones deciding whether to spend the day resisting it or living inside it.

Perhaps every day truly is a blessing.

Not because every day feels pleasant.

But because every day is alive.

The wind reminds us we can still feel.

The rain reminds us things still grow.

The cold reminds us warmth exists.

The heat reminds us shade is a gift.

The storm reminds us the world is wonderfully beyond our control.

The weather is simply the clothing the day has chosen to wear.

It is we who decide whether to spend the afternoon complaining about the outfit.

So stop waiting for perfect weather before you decide to enjoy your life.

Stop wishing away your Tuesdays because they’re cloudy and your Januarys because they’re cold.

Life isn’t waiting on the other side of the forecast.

It’s already here.

And if I may offer one piece of practical wisdom after years of unnecessary negotiations with winter—

Buy better boots.

Hari Om Tat Sat