We have a saying in New Mexico, "If you don't like the weather, wait a minute."
We get a taste of all the seasons here. Just enough to make you stop and pay attention.
Where would we be if we couldn't cozy down and gaze into a fire a few times in the year?
But the snow reminds me of lines from James Joyce:
Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.
from The Dubliners, The Dead.
I met my husband in a class on James Joyce, and not so long after, we traveled together to Dublin. We walked the streets from his novel, Ulysses, on June 16th, and visited sites from scenes that all took place on that single date in 1904. One single day over its eight hundred pages.
I had never walked through the pages of a novel before. And it made a deep impression as we gazed upon the treeless hills, and churchyard crosses.
We had what we learned was a highly unusual series of sunny days. And we had rain. I heard a movie line once that "when you're in love, rain is just another kind of good weather."
So many days have passed since then. Many days of hundreds of pages.
A few of tragedy, like in a story. And many of beauty.
And if I don't like any in particular, I just wait . . . .
Thanks so much for stopping by!
Ciao! for now!