Every winter it's the same: I convince (or attempt to convince) myself that
this omnipresent grey is okay -- there are myriad variations of tone,
the bare landscape is elegant in its simplicity, darkness is a comfort.
And it works, for the most part. I do love the rain -- water falling from
the sky is like living under a perpetual waterfall. And the drama of wind
exhilirates me with its possibility for change. Cold foggy mornings
feel like swaddling: cozy, secure, the larger world shut out for a time.
And then there is a day like yesterday -- nearly eighty degrees
and it's as if every tree and bush is beside itself trying to leaf out --
and the new growth is nearly fluorescent in the surprise of sun.
The world feels opened out, limitless, infinite.
And I think: how did I possibly endure the eternal grey of a Seattle winter?
How does anyone?
And this I know: it's the contrast that is necessary.
Yes, I love it here. Indeed I do.