Weather

I've always lived in the Pacific Northwest. Rain is not unfamiliar to me. Fall is desperate to begin and it's been damp and gray the last few days. My favorite kind of weather.

The kind of weather that means books in my chair with a blanket and a cat. It means fires and cuddling and sweaters and lovely orange brown and yellow things. It means hot tea on cold mornings and seeing your breath in the air.

Today the sun is playing peek a boo. It beams brightly one moment, full and warm on my skin. The next moment it dashes behind a cloud, turning the sky gray. As I walk around the garden this morning, I find myself waiting for those bursts of sun. I pick up branches from the wet lawn, remnants from the storm last weekend and wipe my brow with the back of my hand. It feels good out here. I feel good.

I go back inside for a second cup of coffee and see my book on the counter. I want to read it but more than that, I want to keep feeling good and the subject is a little dark. I realize I'm hungry and start to create breakfast. Eggs with cheese and tomatoes, toast. It smells like cinnamon in the kitchen from the sprinkling on my coffee. I sing softly to myself as I scramble the eggs. I dance with the cats circling my ankles, content and at ease

The morning sun streams from the window across the table, painting my plate.  I smile, amused by the article I'm reading between bites of toast. I don't know that I miss the rain so much right now. I feel light, hopeful. I feel like the sun is dodging the clouds to spread it's warmth instead of hiding behind them. I feel happy.




I want to drown in this feeling. I think of everything and everyone that makes me feel happy. I take a moment and silently express my gratitude. I contemplate writing about what makes me feel this way and anxiety tells me no one will care. I write about the sun instead-a representation of my feelings. But it's still in there. This need to tell those I care for that I do and my fingers start to fly. It's easy to write when it's about something you are passionate about. I remember this is my blog and my thoughts and that I promised I'd always tell you how I feel about things and I begin.

My dad. He's always the first thing that comes to mind when I'm feeling grateful. He's funny, old enough to be wise, and loves me for who I am. We genuinely like each other as people and I wish I could hang out with him more often. It scares me so much to think about something happening to him-it always has. Since I was old enough to remember, I knew he was going to die. "Daddy might not come home this year", was a phrase I heard often. I'm not trying to be morbid, that's just how it was. His job was dangerous, he may not live to come home in the fall. When he did come home it made it even more of a celebration. Needless to say I kind of hung onto that feeling of dread and while I couldn't possibly be more prepared for it, I'll never be ready for him to be gone. BUT. I know that if it were to happen unexpectedly, I could take a bit of solace in knowing that he loves me and I love him. That, despite anxiety's evil reminder, is what makes me happy. Loving someone is beautiful, but knowing they know? Exquisite.

The girls. I have two very close girl friends, best friends, that know me better than I know myself. I can call or text them any time and I know that they will always respond. They know what I'm talking about with even the fewest words. They've watched me stumble, grow and thrive, just as I have them. Even now as the three of us live separate lives, we're probably the closest we've ever been. They are my sisters, my heart.

My Fella. I truly couldn't have found a better person for me. He is incredibly smart, thoughtful and kind. He is honest and sensitive and supportive. He's a good man that cares about his family and works hard.  And he's nice to waitresses. My grandma once told me that she married my grandpa because he wasn't just nice to her, he was nice to the waitress. My Fella is one of the good ones. I'm lucky to have him.

I'm writing all of this on a computer that I own in a room that is in a house that I live in that has windows that look out over a yard full of green.  I am grateful.

Across the yard I can see my neighbor standing on his deck. He's dancing a little bit with his cell phone in one hand, a joint in the other. My music is on but my windows are closed so it's not mine he hears. I think he sees me seeing him because he stops and looks at his phone. I look away, hoping he's not embarrassed. Dance my friend!

I'm suddenly reminded of a moment shared with someone else and the happiness wanes a bit. I start to remember the argument and I can feel my brow furrow from the memory.  I fight against it, struggle to find the warmth and happiness that began my afternoon. It's still there, a couple paragraphs up. I reread them and sing along to Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'" because I have to.

I feel the bad memory slip away as I focus more on the present. I reach inside myself for the warmth of the sun and find it, hidden behind a cloud of old pain. I coax it out with the music and a smile, hold it close to me.

It's now brilliant with sun inside and out. The warmth is painting my skin, breeze cool in my hair. I stand still for a moment, again silent with gratitude. My favorite kind of weather.