Should We Talk About the Weather?

There's something undeniable about a burst of late spring rain. It makes me feel like a witness to something holy and eternal, the universe capping off the season of rebirth with a baptismal sprinkling of distilled life. There is so much beauty right outside the window, and it's all growing stronger and more harmonious by the minute.

But in spring begins the journey to winter, of course, and if my binge-watching of "Game of Thrones" has taught me anything, it's that winter is coming. (And then it's just rinse and repeat, for as Shelley reminds us spring is never far behind.) All that blooms and grows will wither and die, and in the blink of an eye the life-affirming shower turns into a torrential downpour. The knowledge of which should only serve to make days like this more precious and beautiful for the evolved mind that understands both that we were born to die and that death is not the end. 

And so there's my mood today, changing as fast as the clouds shift in the oblivious sky. Things outside are looking California, to borrow a phrase, but I'm feeling Minnesota. And that's alright with me, for now at least. I'm not interested in forcing myself into or out of a particular mood today. I think I'll just play it as it lays, and resist the urge to make some grand dramatic gesture borne out of what could either be hope or desperation (they can look so much alike.) That may come later, and if so I'll need to save my strength. 

So for now I'm looking out the window, listening to the birds sing and trying to shut the fuck up for awhile. It's not a bad way to spend the day, all things considered.