The hard soil and four months of snow make the inhabitant of the northern temperate zone wiser and abler than his fellow who enjoys the fixed smile of the tropics. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson
In a world awash in quotes, I might prefer this one to all of the others. I’ve been so fond of this quote that one year I included it on the back cover of my magazine. I’ve written about it plenty, but the quote was on my mind this week in a way than it hadn’t been before.
This fall has been, without any doubt, the nicest fall in the history of falls. The sunshine and the temperatures and the calmness on the lake. Fancy a swim on October 5th? No problem. Want to slalom down the middle of the lake at 2 pm on a Wednesday? Zero issue. This is how our fall went. Ideal wamth and low humidity and an endless parade of perfection. On shore path walks the weather was on the minds of everyone you might have passed. “Another six months of this please”, the walkers would say. I’d nod in agreement, because why wouldn’t I? Every normal person loves 78 and sunny.
Every normal person except me. I enjoyed it, sure. I guess. It was pleasant. But my true nature was revealed the other night after yet another evening showing, the sort that have me questioning just why I want to keep doing this job. Must I do it forever? I decided I was undecided. I drove home into the darkening sky. It was Monday night which meant the garbage can must go out to the road. The rain strengthened. Big summery drops of rain. The wind stiffened. The yellowing walnut leaves stripped and fell onto my driveway, the asphalt wet with the shine of a fresh rain. I parked in my garage and walked out to the weather. It was raining. It was windy. It was cool. My short sleeve shirt and shorts felt inappropriate and ridiculous, but I walked the trash can 500 or so feet from my garage to the road, and when I walked back to the house something important dawned on me. This was nicer than the 82 degree sunshine from earlier in the day. I didn’t hurry back to the house. The rain soaked my shirt and flattened my otherwise magnificent hair. The ground smelled of rain and the summer flowers that remain in my wildflower field bent and blew in the wind. A breeze is for summer. For silliness and irresponsibility. This was wind. Mean, serious, dark, fall wind.
And I loved it. I needed it. There had been too much summer. Too much warmth. Too much perfection. I can’t live in that sort of world, and so I choose to live here. Where the good stretches of weather wear me down instead of build me up. Where at this point in the year I look forward to the gloom, even as others run to chase the sunshine to the next sunny place. If you need something this fall, I’ll be here. Happy on the days when it’s cloudy and wet, because who couldn’t be?