We went to the ski trails to run and bike. Nobody else really uses them, but they make some nice loops. We emerge from the woods looking like drowned rats. On the way back, we ran into a cow jam:
It is really easy to let the rain get to you. I saw this a lot when I lived in Sitka. Some people embraced it, but others settled into a depression that was only alleviated by taking the ferry south. The rich people ran away in the winter, to Florida and Hawaii. The rest of us survived by deciding that the weather was like this everywhere, that this was all there was, no other parallel universe where people wore shorts and a bottle of sunscreen didn't last for five years. There could be a kind of comfort in the rain, shutting us off from a world that seemed increasingly volatile.
|This was a nice day in Southeast Alaska--you can see the mountains!|
I've lived in endless summer (Florida), endless rain (Alaska) and endless desert (Nevada). I like the space between the extremes. Lately I have been thinking about careers and being left behind as people I worked with on trail crews surge ahead. Others live without their spouses for years in a sort of commuter marriage. I decide in the end I just can't do it. I need the three spheres: work I don't hate, place I love, a person I adore. You can always add more spheres until it gets kind of ridiculous: running trails! A swimming pool! A dentist within 100 miles! But the core three is what matters.
It didn't always. I've been a traveler, chaser of new places. That's changed. I'm glad I had those wild seasonal years. It makes it easier to buckle down now, to get money in the bank, to mow the lawn even, instead of thinking, I'm mowing the lawn. What have I become?
Rain lends itself to musings like these. I'm looking forward to sun.