On Being a Weathervane

Today I open my upstairs window and look at the gentle view over rooftops and chimneys and distant rolling hills. It is foggy, which makes everything seem suspended in ghostlight, somehow, just waiting for something magical to happen. Behind the sound of distant traffic and the single call of a starling from a television aerial, is hushed stillness. Streetlamps loom out of the mist. My breath smokes in the early morning air.

Today I open my upstairs window to high, fast-scudding clouds, and a restless stirring in all the trees of the surrounding gardens. We don't have a garden, so I surreptiously take pleasure from overlooking everyone else's. The air is fresh, and has a snap, waking my senses to what is possible, what hasn't yet come to pass. The breeze playfully whips at my cheeks.

Today I open my window to rain. Soft rain, spilling down the pane and the drainpipes, dripping onto my head. The birds continue to call, undeterred. I think about how hard we try to stay dry, covering ourselves, running for shelter, exclaiming in annoyance and indignation; how much harder everything seems. It's just water. And I'm as guilty as anyone.

Weather. I love it; I despair at it; I write about it. Like emotion, it doesn't last. Like emotion, it is necessary for determining the mood of a piece. Inner weather, or outer weather, it doesn't much matter which. The thing is, it passes. It may destroy, but it also creates - and always, eventually, it passes through. I am learning to be a weathervane. Not fighting the weather, but turning with it, and allowing it to pass me by.

Simple, yes.  Easy?  No...