This Weather

The avalanche of fear accompanying the threat of Global Warming has always been a bit tempered by the thought that maybe, just maybe Seattle's gray wetness would evaporate. While Phoenix drowned in rainstorms, we'd luxuriate in warm, sunny weather at least 6 months out of the year instead of the standard 6 weeks.

But no, Global Warming (yes, capitalized) has only made our gray, wet, cold weather grayer, wetter, and colder along with windier and slightly more unpredictable. Every fall and spring the local news stations innundate us with footage of floods from the flatlands, but this year, the floods rolled down the hills and through the cities and right into our neighborhood tucked safely, we thought, on one of the many Seattle hills right into the winter. Winds blew out powerlines, snow piled 87 inches high in the mountain passes by mid-December, and below freezing temperatures are predicted for the next few nights.

This isn't uncommon, but the frequency has increased and the skies have looked everso more ominous on my walks with the dog.

Is it possible that the length of the winter days is actually shorter than ever before? Is it possible that the nights have stretched into a record length? Did we move north in latitude?

Today offered us a respite. Yesterday too. It was dry yesterday though not completely clear until the afternoon, but today was sunny if not warm, and dry if not any less muddy. We sat on our new neighbor's porch and felt the sun on our faces and arms and laughed about all the mishaps of moving and remodeling. Our young neighbors have just moved in after days and nights of painting and sanding, caulking and stripping. This is their first home and they have high hopes for its future, but for now it is liveable and big enough to hold the whole family -- 16 in the extended group -- for the New Year's Eve festivities.

For now, the sky is that blue no one can quite describe, trapped between cerulean and turquoise, the kind of blue on postcards sent from tropical oceans. The pink horizon gives no hint of Global Warming, unlike the often orange skyline of summer. The air is clear after weeks of rain, but it's cold as well, my breath lifting from me each time I take the dog out.

Years ago I met a woman in French Glen, Oregon on the edges of the wildlife refuge. It was early in the morning and she was sitting on the screened in porch of the old hotel painting the sky. Her canvas was the large palette of a sketchbook, previous pages turned back on a spiral binding.

"What are you painting?" I asked.

"The weather," she replied and never once let her paintbrush lift from its purpose.

"How do you capture something so statistical with paints?"

She smiled and looked up. "Like this." She folded back the pages of her sketch book to reveal day after day of paintings. In the bottom right hand corner of each page she'd written location, temperature, humidity, precipitation and almost every other meterological data one would find on the evening weather report. "I paint each day," she continued, "And try to capture in color and texture that vague statistical data you mention."

She'd done it, too. The days prior felt captured in her book -- the unexpected lightning storm of the previous day, the slant of the sun against the migrating birds resting in the refuge wetlands, and the cloud cover that greeted me as I drove into French Glen.

"How long have you been doing this?" I asked.

"I'm recording the weather each day for a year. I began on January 1st." She went back to painting, mixing the colors to produce just the right morning blue of the muggy August sky.

I think of that woman often especially when the weather challenges the forecasts. I admired her discipline and perseverance. I admired her creative genius. I admired her desire to chronicle something very few people would remember.

I cannot paint, but I've often thought about keeping a daily weather journal. Every time I try, though, I long for the tubes of color she had laid before her. Words are not magnificent enough to capture the bitter frost of tonight or the gusts of tomorrow's windstorms.

Perhaps Global Warming is just a cyclical event. Perhaps thousands of years ago the weather leapt from the skies to slice down trees and set forests ablaze. Perhaps great drifts of ice melted into flooding streams that carved rock and tossed boulders tumbling. Perhaps huge swaths of grasslands parched into sands. Perhaps humans are nothing more than rooted debris, tenuous fixtures about to be swept into the rising oceans. Perhaps it can't be stopped and the warmth of the skies will wipe the earth's slate clean of human life with all of our words and paints, our statistics and predictions.

Today I am simply moved by this weather, whatever the reasons.

The Light

It rained all day. There was the promise of snow, but it was indistinguishable from the drops of rain. It was dark and wet all day. We did very little, which I resigned myself to about 3 this afternoon. Do nothing day, officially declared.

Now the gray light that filled our day is gone and it is dark and wet and cold. Ann is cooking dinner and Rubin is chowing down a bowl of kibble and chicken. For some reason it is this light that I love so much. It's not a natural light, but a warm light of the kitchen and the study, the lamp light in the living room and the glowing light above the stove where Ann is cooking.

I was glad when the winter solstice passed. The days would grow longer, more light to live by. But occasionally, I like this winter light or winter dark is more appropriate. Our house feels soft. Our house feels like a nesting place, a place where we can just do nothing and feel little to no guilt.

Ann never feels guilt about such days. I did for the first half, but then, lying on the couch with a book to finish and that lamp light warm above my head, the guilt faded away, much like the light of day and I settled into the darkness.

Now dinner is ready and we'll sit in that glow of the kitchen and talk about making cookies tonight -- a perfect endeavor on a dark, rainy night.

Courage

I love this picture because of Rubin's exposed tongue and my apparently missing teeth. I guess that's what happens when you turn 49 years old.

Today was a great day, though. We went to Peggy's farm and played with the horses. Rubin didn't play much, but Jeanne and Lisa's daughters played big time. They are two and four years old and were the pure definition of COURAGE.

When I was a kid, my family would watch "The Wizard of Oz" every year on our little black and white TV. You sort of lost the switch from Kansas to Munchkin land, though the quality of the picture changed right when Dorothy opened the door, but still, I remember that movie like I'd written it myself. Later, when we had a color TV, I'd hide in the kitchen when the Wicked Witch was on the old house with a ball of fire on her broom ready to hurl it at the scarecrow. Something about the green skin wigged me out, but once she was gone, I was skipping down the yellow brick road as they fetched up the Cowardly Lion.

I loved all the characters, but he was my favorite. I imitated him all the time -- What happens if you run into a Prontasaurus? I'd show him who's king of the forest! -- and I practiced under my covers after I watched the movie saying "Courage" with just the right amount of spittle in my throat.

Courage dribbles out of us, I think, as we get older. Okay, maybe not everyone, but I often feel like it's dribbled out of me. This is an interesting time. I'm finishing out my last year of teaching, getting ready to leap into something completely new and different, and all I could do today on my 49th birthday is cry as I listened to the four-year old say, upon watching Peggy demonstrate how to work with the horse, "I can do that!" And then she marched right into that arena and lead that horse around like she was 150 pounds and not 40 pounds.

And if that wasn't amazing enough, her two-year old sister got up on top of that 1,100 pound beast and pointed the direction she wanted to go every time Peggy said, "Where should we go?"

Courage, I've read, is not the lack of fear. It's supposedly knowing the fear and doing the thing anyway. I buy that on some level, but on another level there's something to be said for being purely courageous (doing the thing without the hint of fear). The girls were like that today. They hadn't a clue what there was to be afraid of though somehow they must have sensed it as they reached up above their heads and groomed the horse's belly. How could they not know that the animal next to them could squash them flat with just the wrong move?

But the horse was gentle and patient and the girls sensed that more than they sensed anything we adults define as fear.

I liked watching their courage today. I liked watching them move confidently forward, trusting Peggy and the horses without all those tapes playing in their heads -- "You can't do this...what the hell are you thinking? You're going to fail. What if I do something wrong? I could get hurt!" They were inspirational today and the perfect birthday present. Courage is about moving forward, with a smile on your face and a swagger in your walk that says, "It doesn't get any better than this!"

It doesn't. It really, really doesn't.

Working Alternatives

My survival these days depends upon long walks in the inclement weather. My cheeks are flushed from a brisk cruise down by the lake with Rubin in tow. Walking is my meditation and when I walk I think about my life -- past, present, and future.


Last week was no exception. In the waning winter light I thought about leaving teaching and everything that might mean. I'm ready to leave, but in the wake of that decision are doubts. Who am I if I'm not a teacher? What skills do I have to be anything else other than a teacher? What if, when I make the leap to dog training and writing, I fail?

Fear defines my wake along with the doubt and a whitecap or two of insecurity about myself, my skills, and my desires.

So when I came home from my long, pondering walk I talked with Ann.

Me: How are you feeling about my desire to leave teaching?

Ann: Fine. You're ready.

Me: Yeah, but what if it doesn't go well?

Ann: How wouldn't it go well?

Me: What if I don't like what I've chosen, what if I fail, what if I can't earn enough money?

Ann: (Who is putzing around the kitchen never stopping to look at my fears with me, just moving intently from the fridge to the sink to the garbage can to the stove...) Well then, I guess you can always be a lesbian prostitute.

This, of course, makes me laugh. Ann is not a worrier. She just takes things as they come. She may get upset about something, but generally that something doesn't linger long -- she moves on and in her wake is a uniformed set of waves disappearing in the wide expanse of her life.

Later that night we're watching TV. I'm still chewing my arm off with worry. Ann's talking about the landscaping that's currently happening in our muddy yard.

Ann: It looks good, doesn't it?

Me: Yes, though I'm tired of the mud.

Ann: (Who can see beyond the next few months...) Yeah, but next year, it's gonna be great and we can have dinner out on the new deck and really enjoy it.

Me: Unless I'm in the poor house.

Ann: You won't be poor. You'll be "the wife" making the meals and cleaning the house. (She smiles.)

Me: That would be okay with you?

Ann: Sure! Why not? Who doesn't want a wife?

Me: Okay, I promise to be the best lesbian prostitute wife you've ever had!

Ann: Actually, you'd be the first!

We laugh and though I know she'll never let me starve or be homeless or feel guilty about being "kept woman" I still worry that this is the right move at the right time.

Yesterday I met with our school's "consultant" who meets with the staff to talk about issues that might be running under the surface. My issues are personal and have to do with how I go about telling everyone (especially my teaching partner) that I'm leaving.

Consultant: Telling is a series of stories. You don't just tell this once. You'll tell it over and over and every time you tell it, your narrative will refine itself and the truth will emerge.

Me: The truth?

C: Sure. Right now the truth is emerging even as you tell me. First your story was focused on the issues here at school and then, the more you spoke, the more the story became about you and your self awareness that you are becoming something you don't admire -- a cranky, bitchy old teacher. The more you tell the narrative of your leaving, the more the story will be about you and not everyone else. That's the truth. You need to leave to stretch yourself. You need to leave to pursue other passions in your life. You need to leave because you need to be fulfilled and challenged and after 22 years of teaching, that's not happening any more. You are at a key place in your life -- you either leave now or you stay for the next 10 years and retire. People will understand that story. People will understand the service you've provided for 22 years and they will be grateful for you, they will be supportive of you, they will be sad, but they'll wish you well, too.

Me: But what if I fail?

C: You won't fail. Life will just be different. And if it's a difference you didn't want, you'll find your way back here or to something that does feel right. You aren't going to do nothing are you? You don't strike me as a person who's going to do nothing?

We laugh. No, I'm not that kind of person. If I was, the worry about doing nothing would eat me alive, one limb at a time.

After my talk with the consultant, I spoke with our Assistant Head of School. I love this man. He's kind and sensitive and I trust him completely. When I told him about my conversation with the consultant, he nodded and said, "I won't lie. This is hard for me. It's going to take me awhile to get over your leaving. You are one of the finest teachers I've ever known."

I was stunned. "Thank you" was all that popped out, before he continued, "But don't count us out completely. We're looking at hiring master teachers who would work part time with our younger faculty to support them. Keep that open as an option."

When I think about it now, I realize I have many options -- clerk at REI, dog trainer, writer, part-time master teacher, wife, and lesbian prostitute. Maybe that's why I slept so well last night -- my wake didn't look so choppy with doubt and fear any more.

And now Rubin wants his morning walk. It's windy and cold outside...just what I need to chill off my doubts.

Narrowing It Down

In high school I was a sprinter. I ran the 100, 200, and 400 meter races. I long jumped. I competed in sports that required my speed -- basketball, softball, volleyball, and yes, even badmitton. I liked fast and I still do. My brain even works fast. I think 10 steps ahead with contingency plans along the way.

Ann, on the other hand, moves at one speed. I kid her about this, but it's the truth. One speed. She does not hurry and if pushed to hurry she gets flustered and snippy, she shuts down and gets quiet. She considers all options before she makes a move and sometimes this can take days or weeks.

When her father died last spring, she spent months talking with her financial planner about the best choices for the inheritance. Meanwhile, papers needed to be signed and the longer Ann took to sign the papers, the longer her brother, but mostly her sister had to wait (her sister was much more anxious and in need of the money). So her sister would call and sometimes her brother, but her brother calling was always a relaxed conversation as he explained the details of being executor of the estate. Phone calls with her sister are rare, but for about 3 weeks, Ann received 3-4 phone calls a week and though they'd start out, "How are you?" they'd end up with, "When are you going to sign the papers?"

Now that Ann has signed the papers and distributed her money into well-researched funds, her sister no longer calls on a weekly or even monthly basis.

But that is neither here nor there. The point is, Ann is thoughtful and takes her time with important decisions and even the unimportant ones.

Being a sprinter, it can drive me crazy. I like to make and act on my decisions. Like right now, I've decided to shift from teaching into dog training, but I must complete the next 6 months of my contract. It's difficult because while I teach during the day, I train dogs three nights a week. During the day, I rarely feel joy. During the night training classes I feel joy every moment.

But I must be patient. It's a distance race not a sprint and so I must conserve my energy if I expect to see the finish line.

So, while Ann flew out of town to visit her sister who is recovering (quite nicely) from her masectomy (her only sister and hence the one who rarely calls unless money is involved), I started researching the purchase of a new car.

In a previous post I spelled out my dilemma. Hybrid or bio-diesel? Small car or SUV? Do we own two cars instead of one? Do we sell our car now and buy something new and environmentally friendly? Or do we buy two cars and sell our old one?

I did my research and have surmised that we need a Ford Escape Hybrid. Though I'd prefer a 2007, there aren't that many out there and so I am stuck looking at the 2008. But part of my dilemma is still there -- do we own one car or two? Do we sell our Toyota 4Runner or keep it, adding a hybrid to our family?

If I were living on my own, I'd go out tomorrow and sell our SUV and buy the Ford.

But I live with Ann and she doesn't sprint to her decisions.

So, while she was away I wrote out the 4 options we have for purchasing a car. While Ann appreciated it she still is not ready to make a decision.

Meanwhile, I'm in my anxious mode. "If we find a 2007 Ford Escape, I think we should buy it," I tell her.

"Why?"

"Because they have better gas mileage than the 2008's and Click and Clack think it's a better deal, but there aren't that many out there so we must jump on any opportunity."

Silence.

"What do you think?"

Silence.

And then, "I'm not ready to make this decision. Let's talk about it when I'm not so tired."

Sprint, sprint, sprint. My heart is surging ahead and now I must wait. I am not good at waiting, though I know Ann's way of making decisions is probably more advisable. Still, now that I've done all my research and narrowed it down, it feels time to act.

I am the hare clicking away at the computer comparison shopping.

My tortise is asleep on the couch. The TV is on and lo and behold, an ad for a Ford Escape Hybrid comes on.

Wake up, wake up!

But if I've learned anything it's that an anxious hare cannot rouse of resting tortise.

December

I have a love/hate relationship with December. December is all of those things we commonly think about -- holidays, families, snow, cold weather, dark days and long nights, holiday parties and get-togethers -- but it's also my birthday month, which makes for a whole lot of mixed emotions.

No matter how good people's intentions are, when you're birthday is in December, it tends to get pushed out of the way by other festive (and not so festive) events. We already have 4 invitations to 4 different parties/events. We haven't accepted all of the invitations, but there's a tipping point -- after so many you either decide you must go to all of them (small circle of friends) or go to none of them. Picking and choosing is not an option.

I also have a love/hate relationship with the weather in December. I love snow and I love to cross country ski, but as a walking-commuter, it's damn cold and wet and windy out there (especially of late). I walk to work in the dark and I walk home in the dark only to leash up the dog and walk some more. With all this walking I should be 20 pounds lighter, but cold weather, dark hours, and December also mean I eat more...I WANT to eat more. It's like I'm never full. I just want calories...as many as I can stuff into my mouth and all the walking in the world ain't gonna knock that off!

Last week I heard two young teachers talking in the hallway:

Teacher #1-- There aren't enough scarfs and sweaters in the world to keep me warm these days.

Teacher #2 -- I feel exactly the same way. I can't believe these people who walk around in winter with short-sleeved shirts and scooped necklines!

Each of them was bundled head to toe...and then, one of them raised their hand to reach for something on the bulletin board and her shirt pulled up to expose her bare belly. She couldn't reach the posting, so the other teacher helped her and her bare belly, too, shimmered in the winter light.

I wanted to ask: So, your necks get cold, but not your bellies?

But I kept my mouth shut.

I dress warmly, except when I'm having a hot flash and then I'm in a t-shirt -- short sleeve with a scooped neck. I always carry a sweater and on my walks to and from work, I generally stop to either put the sweater on or take the sweater off. Unless it's raining and then I just wear my raincoat over my t-shirt and by the time I get to work (or home again as the case may be) I'm drenched in that kind of cold sweat that happens when you exercise with Gore-tex close to your skin.

See -- love/hate, love/hate.

I like the idea of hibernation...except...

...I'd miss my birthday...

Snow!

Nothing warms my heart more than snow! It came down fast and is still coming down. The only downside...I have to pick up Ann at the airport. She's flying in from, of all places, Phoenix...though it's been raining there for days now. She'll be shocked at how much snow we have. Could be an interesting drive to the airport and back.

More photos on the Rubinations site!