I step from my office and glance at the crystal blue lake where the sun winks at me from the shimmering surface. November? Is it? Are you sure Thanksgiving is this week? It does not feel as late fall/early winter is supposed to feel.
Ask me if I am concerned?
I hate cold weather. You would think that leaving the warm equator behind 15 years ago and moving farther up in the northern hemisphere that my body might have started some sort of adaptation for the colder winter months. It has not.
“A lot of people like snow. I find it to be an unnecessary freezing of water.” ~Carl Reiner
I am quite sure that I make for an amusing sight when the weather does get beyond crisp and the mercury drops below 50°F. When others wear a sweater to warm themselves … I am already sporting a jacket. When the public ventures forth with jackets … you will find me in a winter coat and gloves. The absurd amount of layers I wear when everyone else begins to wear winter wear is astounding. I always look out of place.
“Winter, a bad guest, sitteth with me at home; blue are my hands with his friendly handshaking.” ~Friedrich Nietzsche
I need sunshine. I need warmth. I need the planet to feel like it is alive! I need August! Every winter I threaten to pack up and move to Phoenix, AZ or San Diego, CA in order to escape as much winter weather as possible … but not today.
It may be late November, but today it is 75°F and all is well.
“There is no month in the whole year in which nature wears a more beautiful appearance than in the month of August. Spring has many beauties, and May is a fresh and blooming month, but the charms of this time of year are enhanced by their contrast with the winter season. August has no such advantage. It comes when we remember nothing but clear skies, green fields, and sweet-smelling flowers--when the recollection of snow, and ice, and bleak winds, has faded from our minds as completely as they have disappeared from the earth--and yet what a pleasant time it is! Orchards and cornfields ring with the hum of labour; trees bend beneath the thick clusters of rich fruit which bow their branches to the ground; and the corn, piled in graceful sheaves, or waving in every light breath that sweeps above it, as if it wooed the sickle, tinges the landscape with a golden hue.” ~Charles Dickens, The Pickwick Papers