(no subject)
The weather here for January is being its usually unusual self.
Snow, driving rains, fog, fifty degree temperatures and now 30 mile an hour winds, all in the space of a week.
Just listening to the wind howl made my bones cold, and instead of reaching for my sweatshirt I opted to put the stove on. I'd been out this morning in the humid, nearly sixty degree weather -- a change so sharp that the thermometer in the garage was still reading in the forties and the drastic change as I backed my car out fogged every surface in the car -- including the rearview mirror, dash board and steering wheel.
Pennsylvania. If you don't like the weather wait five minutes.
I decided to see if it was actually cold enough to justify the stove and nearly had the back screen door ripped from its hinges when I opened it. The wind's whipping north to south and any earlier warmth has been easily sliced away.
I stand out there on the deck, bare feet, jeans, tee shirt, contemplating this January as compared to last. The south half of the sky is clear blue with puffy white clouds. The north half is dark gray and menacing. They swirl together in a place that looks like it's right over my head but it could actually be anywhere at all. There's an echo of a memory, of magic and energy and I just stand there, letting the wind buffet me, trying to find the right thread to pull. Something about camping and bonfires and freedom. It slips away too quickly though, and as I emerge from my rummage through memory, I hear the sharp snapping of a tarp in the wind. It interests me because it's a familiar noise, but a mystery. It's a noise I've been hearing for days now but because I can define it, I've written it off -- assigned it a cause and dismissed it.
I'm barefoot and my jeans are too long. The first step onto the grass is icy, and mud and cold water oozes up between my toes, wetting my too-long jeans. My instinct is to draw back -- This is messy, this is pointless, you're going to get muddy and wet, don't do this! -- but I keep walking. Why shouldn't I do this? Is there some law against being muddy and careless? Some law that says whims can only be followed when they are neat, clean and acceptable? This do/don't do tug of war I realise is one of the foundations of my constant inability to act- doing what is acceptable, being afraid of getting cold or wet or dirty just for the sake of curiosity.
God, when did I get so stodgy?
As I walk, I give up quickly on keeping my jeans dry and move from tiptoes to flat feet, rolling each step through the mud until the water pools over my feet and begins to wick up my pant legs. The yard descends in a slope so each step is muddier than the last. I peer at the neighboring houses through the trees, tracking the familiar 'crack crack CRACK' of unsecured plastic in the wind. Finally at the back of the yard in a pool of standing water that was probably ice last night, I see the back neighbors are putting an addition on their cottage. It's half framed and the roof is covered in a ubiquitous blue tarp which has been inexpertly and sloppily secured. Its edges wave at me in the wind, "Hello, hi, so nice to finally see you! I've been calling for ages, just wanted to introduce myself! Such weather, hm? Well, have a nice day!" The wind calms and the edges flutter flush against the roof.
I wiggle my toes in the mud and the water. Ghost white, rich clay brown. I think it's pretty, though I accept I may be the only one to appreciate the contrast or the mess.
I turn to walk back. The wind tugs at me again and I unclip my hair for no reason other than I want to. It's an amateur move -- shampoo commercial stuff -- but feeling my hair float free, whipping to this side and that... it feels strong and good and right. My strides are short but I feel the strength and power in my legs now that I'm no longer afraid of cold water or mud. I cover the distance from the back of the yard to the front suffused with a feeling of self-possession, of ownership not of the ground on which I walk but of the way I choose to walk it -- without fear, without care for a little mess, a little discomfort or uncertainty.
Back inside I slip my jeans off and tiptoe to the bathroom, trying not to leave evidence all over the rugs of my excursion. I'm not sure I could explain the muddy footprints anyway. At least, not in a way that would make sense to anyone except me.
Crossposted from http://pomegranate.dreamwidth.org/2972.html.
comments yon. Replies hither or thither.
Snow, driving rains, fog, fifty degree temperatures and now 30 mile an hour winds, all in the space of a week.
Just listening to the wind howl made my bones cold, and instead of reaching for my sweatshirt I opted to put the stove on. I'd been out this morning in the humid, nearly sixty degree weather -- a change so sharp that the thermometer in the garage was still reading in the forties and the drastic change as I backed my car out fogged every surface in the car -- including the rearview mirror, dash board and steering wheel.
Pennsylvania. If you don't like the weather wait five minutes.
I decided to see if it was actually cold enough to justify the stove and nearly had the back screen door ripped from its hinges when I opened it. The wind's whipping north to south and any earlier warmth has been easily sliced away.
I stand out there on the deck, bare feet, jeans, tee shirt, contemplating this January as compared to last. The south half of the sky is clear blue with puffy white clouds. The north half is dark gray and menacing. They swirl together in a place that looks like it's right over my head but it could actually be anywhere at all. There's an echo of a memory, of magic and energy and I just stand there, letting the wind buffet me, trying to find the right thread to pull. Something about camping and bonfires and freedom. It slips away too quickly though, and as I emerge from my rummage through memory, I hear the sharp snapping of a tarp in the wind. It interests me because it's a familiar noise, but a mystery. It's a noise I've been hearing for days now but because I can define it, I've written it off -- assigned it a cause and dismissed it.
I'm barefoot and my jeans are too long. The first step onto the grass is icy, and mud and cold water oozes up between my toes, wetting my too-long jeans. My instinct is to draw back -- This is messy, this is pointless, you're going to get muddy and wet, don't do this! -- but I keep walking. Why shouldn't I do this? Is there some law against being muddy and careless? Some law that says whims can only be followed when they are neat, clean and acceptable? This do/don't do tug of war I realise is one of the foundations of my constant inability to act- doing what is acceptable, being afraid of getting cold or wet or dirty just for the sake of curiosity.
God, when did I get so stodgy?
As I walk, I give up quickly on keeping my jeans dry and move from tiptoes to flat feet, rolling each step through the mud until the water pools over my feet and begins to wick up my pant legs. The yard descends in a slope so each step is muddier than the last. I peer at the neighboring houses through the trees, tracking the familiar 'crack crack CRACK' of unsecured plastic in the wind. Finally at the back of the yard in a pool of standing water that was probably ice last night, I see the back neighbors are putting an addition on their cottage. It's half framed and the roof is covered in a ubiquitous blue tarp which has been inexpertly and sloppily secured. Its edges wave at me in the wind, "Hello, hi, so nice to finally see you! I've been calling for ages, just wanted to introduce myself! Such weather, hm? Well, have a nice day!" The wind calms and the edges flutter flush against the roof.
I wiggle my toes in the mud and the water. Ghost white, rich clay brown. I think it's pretty, though I accept I may be the only one to appreciate the contrast or the mess.
I turn to walk back. The wind tugs at me again and I unclip my hair for no reason other than I want to. It's an amateur move -- shampoo commercial stuff -- but feeling my hair float free, whipping to this side and that... it feels strong and good and right. My strides are short but I feel the strength and power in my legs now that I'm no longer afraid of cold water or mud. I cover the distance from the back of the yard to the front suffused with a feeling of self-possession, of ownership not of the ground on which I walk but of the way I choose to walk it -- without fear, without care for a little mess, a little discomfort or uncertainty.
Back inside I slip my jeans off and tiptoe to the bathroom, trying not to leave evidence all over the rugs of my excursion. I'm not sure I could explain the muddy footprints anyway. At least, not in a way that would make sense to anyone except me.
Crossposted from http://pomegranate.dreamwidth.org/2972.html.
comments yon. Replies hither or thither.