This morning the weather shifted.
That sentence sounds as if it came out of one of those screenwriter worshops.
You know the type. Where the celebrated writer with one credit to his name doles out helpful advice like Geoffrey Rush on valium.
Choose a block of the human condition. Stuff it into a metaphor vehicle. Reduce everything to a recognizable cliché. And sprinkle with symbols.
Because we all know when a writer talks about weather shifting, there is a subtext just rollin’ along like Ol’ Man River.
But let’s pretend that subtext is for The New Yorker and I am simply talking about the weather. Because the weather has shifted.
During the past two weeks I have been in Oregon, the weather has been extremely pleasant. Blue skies. And temperatures brisk and crisp – right on the cusp of needing a coat and gloves.
The type of weather that could seduce the naïve argonaut into believing that this is what late fall in Oregon is all about. It isn’t. This is October Portland weather. Mid-December is short days filled with drizzle, gray skies, and 50 degree temperatures. Some of my favorite days.
And that is what this morning brought. A bit of rain. A lot of gray. And the feeling Christmas is on its way.
Those nice days have made me feel a bit like an alien. I guess I am. I have thoroughly enjoyed living in Mexico.
During the past two weeks, I have dined with family, a friend from my old work, two former prosecutors, an ex-girlfriend and current good friend, my local Salvation Army board, and a close friend and his extended family. Each get-together has reminded me how much I enjoy this network that has taken six decades to weave. And just how much the people around me mean to my life.
But that is where the climax of this little screenplay arises. Would these visits be so special if I was surrounded by them every day? If every moment was of moment, would I ever know I had one? Or are they special because I am take them in annual doses?
I don’t know. And I don’t care. I am simply going to enjoy my time here as long as it lasts. Living each moment as it arises.
Let the symbols speak for themselves.