We are not supposed to talk about the weather, because the weather is not cool. Weather is the province of farmers; the old and dull; the possibly racist. Weather is the domain of weatherpersons, who are usually wrong. Weather is what you talk about when you have nothing to talk about. If great minds discuss ideas, and small minds discuss people, then anti-minds discuss the weather.
Those of us who grew up in proximity to rural areas—close enough to know what the forest smells like, if not the edibleness of its berries—have a special sensitivity to talking about the weather. That’s what locals do, what they do, those barely-better-than-hillbillies who worry about their lawns the way Puritans worried about their barley crops. When we move away to various cities we make a point to avoid talking about the weather like this. We don’t have lawns anyway, so why should we care?
Here’s the problem: the weather is fascinating. Paying attention to it is more addictive than heroin. (I’m guessing; at the very least it’s comparable to cigarettes.) The intensity of the light and the feeling of the air are impossible not to notice once you get in the habit of noticing them. A sensitivity to winds or barometric pressure is impossible to ignore regardless of whether you, personally, are cultivating a single herb or shrub. And as if the physical implications of the weather weren’t immersive enough, there’s the intellectual realization that your entire reality is shaped by it: how your house is built, how you dress yourself, how you go to the store, how you spend your weekends, and so on. The weather is all. All is the weather. How do people ever talk about anything else?
Excuse me.
In truth though, the weather is a motherfucker. Yesterday, a blessed Saturday, was supposed to be a day for writing. The forecast was snowy and cold. A constant wet grey, perfect for that hygge-style ambience that, if we’re being honest, is far less conducive to good writing than the right mix of caffeine and sativa. It was supposed to be cosy, is my point. The weather was going to help me write this essay, or a better one.
Instead I woke at the hideous hour of 6am to skies that were dark but clear. The voice of Midwestern guilt spoke up: Well, you can’t just sit inside if it’s gonna be a nice day out. And since you’re already up, might as well go see the sunrise from the mountains? No Midwesterner can come back from a one-two combo like that—the good weather scarcity mentality is engrained too deeply. It doesn’t matter if you live in a place with over 300 days of sunshine per year, or if you’ve seen thousands of sunrises, or if both apply.
You haven’t seen this sunrise yet. And it’s right there for the seeing. How could you miss it?
Dear readers, let me tell you it was the most… no. No. It’s time someone told the truth about the weather. I’m not going to sugarcoat it. There was nothing special about this sunrise. In fact, you couldn’t even see the sun itself because it was blocked by the eastern mountainside. No clouds in the pale brightening sky. Nothing but a flat light blue buzzing at the edges. Shadows on the path above the terraced gardens. Wisps of frost with every unmasked breath. A pair of goats chewing weeds, chickens rustling in their shed, a cat leaping from a stone wall. Normal events and normal weather.
Ah, and it was satisfying! To be shuffling out there in your boots against this backdrop of exceptional ordinariness! To think, “Little colder than it looked, better head back for now.” To stop at a new-old bakery on the way back—you’ve walked by it a million times, how come you’ve never tried it?—and grab a chocolate croissant. To throw on a robe when you get home, then fall asleep on the couch with the cat curled up on your chest, and awake hours later to a veritable blizzard. To stare at the first fat white flakes of the season blot out all of existence beyond your window.
And then imagine about two hours later, when the sun is high and the snow is already melted, and someone asks you, “So how’s the day so far?”
You’re going to say the weather’s been crazy. You won’t be able to help yourself. Maybe you’ll say it with a knowing chuckle, or an exaggerated I’m-in-on-the-joke cadence. But you’re a simple, fallible human being and it’ll be impossible to avoid commenting on the weather’s volatility. It’s like the instinct to nurture babies or avoid unpleasant smells. You have to acknowledge weather.
Weather mind is a neighbor to beginner mind. It can introduce you two, which is why it’s so precious and lovely. Or it can exist in a kind of perfectly equilibrated bubble between you, touching neither at any exact moment but always capable of doing so in an instant. Maybe this is why weather mind is so aggravating to some of us. There’s sophisticated weather mind (which makes simple observations with profound implications) and the unsophisticated variety (which makes the same observations but for the purpose of, say, avoiding the topics of politics or failed marriages). No epistemic company is irritating in quite the same way.
On the other hand, who cares about such nerd shit? The much-appreciated dreariness that made this work possible has just lifted, and it’s now a sunny afternoon. This changes things. How so? Not exactly clear yet. But the weather is crazy.