35 tagged with #weather

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Still the Cruellest Month

The tips of my shoes pull in water even when it's not raining, from moisture wicked up from the pavement, from puddles that I cannot resist wading through. I squish when I walk. They are light and will dry out fast, it is okay.

I'm reveling in the fact that I can walk around in a t-shirt and get drenched and not feel cold. It is the moment before the worms have thawed out enough to crawl for the surface, so I can stride across the sidewalk without having to look for them. Millions of green specks are needling out of the ground, and I don't think they know it will be below freezing again soon.

04 April 2014 13:53


I tie my key into my shoelaces so I don't have to carry it in my pocket; I've lost things through pockets before, especially small, dense objects that sit against a seam until it gives way. I can trust my ability to tie a knot that won't slip. If I couldn't trust my knots, I wouldn't climb on ropes.

Every time the skies open the minute I set foot outside, I laugh; my ego enjoys the feeling that I have been personally singled out by the weather gods and that in spite of everything, I enjoy it.

I press up the hill and my shoes slip on the rocks, and I whisper to myself, this feels meaningless now but it will make you a better person later.

03 April 2014 14:56


"Look at the weather," I told myself. "It's beautiful. Put on your shoes and go running."

The moment I left line of sight of the building, the rain started, and I burst out laughing on the spot. When the rain grew, I wheeled back for my jacket. I didn't bother taking it on my way out, thinking that the skies wouldn't dare open on me today, but I love when I am proven wrong. Who am I to think otherwise?

19 March 2014 19:26


The world is anxious in anticipation of spring. I can feel the skies trying to break through. There comes a cautious string of noise from the same bird that has been trying to wake up the leaves all month long.

Deer footprints cross my front lawn, one set of delicate holes punctured through the heavy, wet snow, little parallel lines drawn diagonally across the slope. They shoot towards the alleyway. I wondered where she thought she was going.

I have to remember that 45 is not the same as 65, but I'm guilty of the same anticipation. I put on a t-shirt instead of a wool base layer for the first time in months, and nearly wipe out on the ice that slicks down my driveway, the layer of water on top disguised by shadow. I laughed when I stepped outside, accustomed to feeling as if the weather is actively antagonizing my commute, and instead encountering the gentle whisper of almost-spring.

19 February 2014 10:19

Horse Year

I don't have a lot of strong feelings about holidays, but I've always let myself have some quiet thoughts about observing the transition into a new year. I like that it's downplayed, that my living environment at the moment does not involve obligatory decorations and celebrations that I have to partake in whether or not I want to. It lets me pass the day on my own terms.

It's a moment to clean out old dirt, forgive old grudges, cut loose some of the things that have been sitting on your shoulders, and prepare yourself to accept another year of life. There will be fortunes and misfortunes and problems to solve and opportunities to snatch, and the more old burdens you carry from the old year, the harder it is to face another one.

So, I do the proper thing of sweeping the floors and wiping down the counters and preparing food, while I let my mind clear of the things that I've decided ultimately don't matter. It's just another day, just another year, but it's hard to see the bigger picture changing when the day-to-day ticks by in moments.

The morning was warm, warmer than I've felt in weeks. I couldn't keep the grin off my face while I was biking down to work, as if this is that first day of spring when it's suddenly obvious that the skies are blue and the grass is green and the air is warm, only it's still winter and I am still nauseatingly excited that there's snow on the ground and the clouds are still pressing overhead. Perhaps it was the freedom of movement I've gained from shedding an entire layer of clothing; after getting accustomed to the gear necessary to ride in sub-zero temperatures, outfitting myself for 30F makes me feel naked.

It's called Spring Festival, even though it's still well within the winter season. Nominally, months have names assigned to them so that we can mark the passage of time, but how could we fail to notice time passing? It's the month of sometimes cold, sometimes really cold, sometimes slushy, sometimes stink bugs wake up confused because it's too early for them. It's the month of the crows that have forgotten to go home.

31 January 2014 13:01

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