Winter comes, jarring in its sudden cold, the days shorter and darker and quieter. In the early morning I look out my window to a wide spectrum of grays. It isn’t the morning sunrise, no, it is, instead, a cover of clouds, fluffy, thick, gloomy, which seem to blur, or soften, my view. I see a brick building, faded, and a nearby roof, grayish. I see droopy, leafless trees and an empty sidewalk. There’s a tower in the distance—ornate, grand, glassy—but it exists only in my memory. What appears in its place, today, is a smear across the sky, dark blues and dirty whites, a wash of low clouds that I can, with a good stretch, just about touch.
There’s a portentousness to these sights, to the defused colors, to the sensations that are triggered by long, dense shadows, although I do know, intellectually at least, that this is an illusion: the weather doesn’t determine the fortune of my day, as storm clouds are only sinister in spy novels. Besides, I recall a midsummer afternoon earlier this year, amid the heat and sun and skin, that was nothing but rotten, just as I recall a violent, clamorous rainstorm earlier this year, where I stood on an empty street underneath a downpour with my clothes soaked and a smile.
Yet those memories don’t change my reflexes. What I see outside my window prompts me to prepare for a gloomier day; it seems fitting, natural, inescapable, that the sensations of my surroundings, that the dreary skyline in the distance and the chilly winds that shove against the windowpane, should match the sensations that I feel. I spot a few drops, maybe, after a squint, the opening glimpse of a fierce storm, and that shapes my perception of the moment. Arguably, this is akin to an instinctive paganism, even animism, where the external environment of seasons and storms determines the state of the internal environment.
But that’s obviously wrong. At best, it is misleading, an understanding of nature that’s atavistic, similar to the belief that the moon’s movements or a bird’s flight governs fate. That there’s a harmony between sunshine and splendor, between a downpour and despair. Giving voice to these reflexes, even in the smallest way while peering out the window, is a bit like dabbling in the occult, just a step away from witchcraft and mysticism and sorcery.
When I look out the window, at the overcast sky and toward the coming day, a sense of doubt, confusion, even unease, about what will emerge, seems perfectly appropriate. Nothing in these sights foretells a story for the day—and that’s just fine. Uncertainty has never really troubled me. It seems much closer to the natural order of life than an unexpected result. I do relish, in fact, the moments of uncertainty, of ambiguity, even of confusion. If you demand clear answers and mathematical precision, then moments of friction are more than just troublesome, although, to me at least, they are the moments that most capture life. The world is uncertain and enigmatic and contingent and nearly all events come with fragility; to expect otherwise at the dawn of a day feels both peculiar and arrogant.
Although my eyes, peering through the window, looking at the graying, darkening clouds, still want certainty. There’s an attempt to seek an answer, to discern the character of what’s forthcoming. I need to know, I do, whether it will all work out. It feels like grasping, like reaching for a hand that’s too far away, but I settle. The desire passes, then my body eases, and I bathe in the sensation of uncertainty.
And now it begins to rain. There’s a drumbeat on the windowsill, a growing puddle on the terrace. I listen to the staccato beat against the railing, as the room, too, begins to dim, as the grays outside turn even darker. Deep within me, I notice, is an inclination, a few million years old, that’s still determined to discern a pattern. My body wants a message about the day to surface in this storm. Tell me, please, what it means.
It is this search for patterns, it seems to me, that explains our most unfounded beliefs. The capacity to discern patterns in the world is one of our most incredible abilities and, consequently, one of our biggest drawbacks, as this ability doesn’t come with an off switch. A pattern—even a disturbing or dangerous pattern—is preferred to the unknown. Thus the moon determines fate, rather than the thorny notion that the moon, which stares back at you every night, just doesn’t care; thus a conspiracy theory, too, is better than having no theory; thus the storm clouds beyond my window don’t simply imply rain, they imply an inauspicious day, something eerie, a sense of foreboding about what comes next.
A walk, today, will require a coat, scarf, perhaps a hat, and come with tightened shoulders. But now the conditions begin to feel symbiotic: the cold will lead to sluggish steps and that, almost certainly, will lead to a sluggish mind.
It’s interesting how weather can entice different moods. We have a huge picture window in our home library that frames the distant Nevada mountains. The summer sunshine and blue skies are picturesque, but it’s the rolling clouds, rain, and storms of winter I enjoy viewing the most. Usually with a coffee, good book, and gratitude that I can enjoy such weather in complete comfort. Thanks for this soulful piece.
I love these more lyrical pieces, Charles. Such musicality. Thank you. It has been a while. "...moments of friction are more than just troublesome, although, to me at least, they are the moments that most capture life." Absolutely agree. "...the weather doesn’t determine the fortune of my day, as storm clouds are only sinister in spy novels. " Only sinister in spy novels OR when one is caught on a mountain in the Scottish highlands without the proper clothing, I'd say.