Weather or Not

I woke up to a blue sky and the whistle of the tea kettle. Brian was boiling water, but not for tea. He went outside with a mug of boiling water that within a few seconds became a quick, magnificent arc of steam and ice lacing the polar air. Soon after, we went up to the patio and blew bubbles to watch them freeze and bounce across the patio floor. They were perfect in their greasy, broken, dented imperfections.

It was yet another blue bird day, the sun's rays beaming down, unencumbered by clouds. We delighted in watching the fragile shells of water and soap bounce and roll around when motivated by the slightest breeze. They rolled around in such believable splendor that I believed I could pick one up like a marble, but alas, it simply dissolved, leaving a greasy film on my finger.

Very rarely when I imagine orbs do I imagine them hollow and membrane-thin. Or untouchable. Watching them roll on the floor--almost hovering--made me feel like a witness to a solar system in action. No observable sun or source of gravitational pull, they still seemed to orbit something, rolling around in circles like they did. I am reminded of several passages I've been reading from Diane Ackerman's very early (1975) book of poetry, The Planets: A Cosmic Pastoral.

"A queer lot, aren't we

on this rickety oasis:

whirling men

on a whirling planet,

whose organs slosh

right along with the seas:

4 billion salt-licks

of muscle and blood

dissolving in one prominence

of one sun. As though

life were motion unrelieved."

-Diane Ackerman

I chuckled at her "4 billion" in 1975. Now there are over 7 billion of us in less than 45 years.

As a child, I always wondered how we couldn't feel how fast our planet was moving. At that time, I knew nothing about inertia and how we are capable of inhabiting this whirling planet, unscathed by its movements. It's about the same as being able to rest easy in a smooth, but speeding vehicle. The same as how when we drop a napkin in the moving vehicle, it falls straight down and doesn't fly backwards. We're trustful passengers.

Scanning through social media, I am always inundated with information regarding things that are not directly happening to me. With this weather lately, I am reminded that weather is not something that happens just to the person across the street or in the next town. Your pious, generous neighbor twenty feet away is getting the same fraction of ice, the same polar gusts, the same clap of thunder, as you. Whether or not we know it, it is coming and it is happening. Maybe in various intensities. There are, of course, differences, depending on how prepared you are or where you happen to be. Recluse or not. Rich or not. Hungry or not. At work or not. Sometimes, sure, it might just be your town or your county. Maybe a large swath of your state. Living in a temperate region that doesn't quite receive naturally disastrous weather (besides flooding), I recall the many days I check SnapChat's map to experience the hurricanes, tornados, and forest fires of other places. As awful as it may sound, I felt envy. I wanted to witness the hurricane, the tornado. I want to witness the epic blizzard that shuts down whole cities. But I'm gridlocked in a state of fair-weather. Yes, we had a wet year. Yes, everywhere is colder right now. It's very cold right now. Cold enough to turn membrane into marble. Cold enough to turn liquid into solid and gas at the same time. And we're all experiencing it, regardless, regardless.

Above the modest house and the

palace--the same darkness.

Above the evil man and the just--

the same stars.

-Mary Oliver