Cloaked Conversations
+Micro-Seasons Forty-Nine through Fifty-Four
+ a tiny poem.
How is the Weather?
The art of elevated conversation rests firmly upon the dictum that one should avoid talking about the weather. Presumably, one should avoid writing about it as well. Unless it’s extreme and someone died or was born or fell in or out of love because of the weather that day.
So please pardon my uncouthness while I write about the weather for a bit. Post-pan1, I have noticed that the topic of the weather comes up quite a lot in conversation—even during good conversation. Amidst the most riveting of verbal interactions, it’s not unheard of for one party to say to the other: “Are you getting a lot of rain down there?” or “How did you survive that heat wave?” After a hiatus from converse, you might ask your dear friend: “Did you get a lot of snow last winter?” Or, if the geography calls for it, if you happen to know someone living in Europe: “Did any of that Saharan dust fall on your house?”
Wherever our friends, family and acquaintances reside, questions about what kind of weather they have been living with will invariably sprinkle our dialogues with them. And, while it is true that the Weather of Our Times is often bizarre and noteworthy (if not downright frightening on occasion), I am convinced that when we bring up the topic of the weather, when we ask each other about it, we aren’t actually that concerned with air currents or precipitation or heat indexes. We’re interested in something else altogether. But in our new post-pan way of bouncing around each other, we are reluctantly to get to the heart of it.
Our months and months of Zoomy congregations and “socializing” strictly via devices have left us high and dry in the desert of verbal intercourse (to say nothing of the other kind).
And it’s not really our fault. If you are a person—and there are now hundreds of thousands of these people—who have never looked your co-worker directly in the eye, never been in the same room with them, physically, maybe you feel uncomfortable asking them a question more meaningful, more personal than: “Is it hot in New York right now?”
So you don’t. And this same prophylactic dialogue covers our conversations with people that we used to see (in person) regularly; friends and siblings that we used to hug and go out to dinner with, go to the movie theater with, go dancing and beachcombing and play a viciously competitive game of Scrabble with. We ask these people—our nearest and dearest—”Are you getting any smoke from those wildfires?” but what we really want to know is:
-Do you feel lonely?
-What makes you sad when you think about it too long or too hard?
-When is the last time you fell in love with something beautiful you never knew existed?
-What makes your heart stop with joy?
But we don’t. Certainly I don’t.
I wish I did. Talking about the weather, which is getting weirder all the time, is akin to admitting that we aren’t sure things are looking good out there, for all of us collectively. But that’s too hard to say out loud so we default to: Will summer weather ever get here?
Speaking of the weather, I will tell you that Juneuary has been very typical this year — some sun, some rain, not quite nice enough to feel summery. But what I wish to tell you: I am afraid of where this world is headed—politically, scientifically, emotionally. It is in my nature to be optimistic, but the news and newsmakers continually put heavier barbells on the balance, and every day it gets more and more difficult for me to lift it above my head. This week was a doozy, no doubt about it.
When I am in doubt, I consult the poets, listen to Beethoven and walk in the woods. This is what works for me. What in this crazy-beautiful world works for you, when you feel a little hopeless, a little sad?2
Micro-Seasons: Forty-Nine through Fifty-Four
May 22nd - June 20th
June 21st marked the three-quarter mark of completing my project to document the 72 micro-seasons of the tiny corner of Cascadia where I reside. Here are the next six seasons.
Forty-Nine—Wood rose blossoms: May 22nd - 26th
Fifty—Black-headed grosbeaks serenade: May 27th - May 31st
Fifty-One—Fawns stumble over the fields: Jun 1st - 5th
Fifty-Two—After dusk, cobalt skies: Jun 6th - 10th
Fifty-Three—White blossoms on thimbleberry: Jun 11th - 15th
Fifty-Four—The longest days: Jun 16th - 20th
And Finally, a Tiny Poem
Evening with No Wind
Sitting by the pond the birds in turn take their bath— a conveyance of colors. -06.2024
By “post-pan” I mean the period after we stopped living in isolation and not gathering in groups. A person could argue that we are still living thick in the pandemic, and emotionally-speaking, I do agree. Broadly speaking, however, we are out of the pandemic. For example, when is the last time you showed someone your vaccination card? Do you even know where your vaccination card is? I do not.
On this note, I realize I am remiss in scheduling the quarterly Stirred Zoirée—please look for an email soon with the time & topic for our next discussion. I am always open to the topic—right now I am leaning toward: Survival Tactics for Yet Another Election Season Where You Don’t Want to Vote for Any of the Candidates.