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As the Smoke Clears

As the Smoke Clears

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As the smoke clears, there are shadows once again, and colors, not just a haze of gray. 

As the smoke clears, the outdoors comes into its own, a place to walk and talk and read, not scenery on the other side of glass. 

As the smoke clears, children walk to the school bus. Later they’ll gather by the basketball goal and rope swing to play.

There will be dinners al fresco, dogs barking, the neighbor yelling at his sports team through an open window— small wonders made possible by a shift in the wind, a passing shower. 

Smoke and Booms

Smoke and Booms

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Did you hear the boom, was the question on everyone’s lips yesterday.  It was a sonic boom caused by the scrambling of fighter jets to pursue a private plane that had wandered off course and into restricted airspace. I watched videos of people enjoying a quiet Saturday afternoon, gardening, doing chores — when they suddenly looked up and around, ran outside if they were in and inside if they were out. 

It’s been decades since I heard the sound, and I didn’t recognize it at first. But when I read yesterday’s newspaper (old school, I know), it all became clear.

What hasn’t become clear are our skies, filled as they are now with smoke from Canadian wildfires. 

We may think we’re living our own little disconnected lives, but the smoke and the booms are reminders that, in many ways, we are one. 

Feeling the Pull

Feeling the Pull

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Writing and weather has kept me mostly inside for the better part of two weeks, and I’m feeling the loss of woods and sky and birdsong. 

Late yesterday’s walk was a reminder of just how much. The bamboo forest. The creekside trail. Everything green and glowing from the rain and chill. A new tree down to clamber over. 

It was a pleasure to tromp through it all. And this morning, as I watch bluejays dart and a fox scamper home, as sunlight pools in the shady yard, I feel the pull of the outdoors again. 

(No, this was not taken in the Virginia woods. It’s an Irish robin posing on the isle of Inishmore.)

  

Maybe May

Maybe May

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It’s May Day, the first day of a glorious month, not a holiday in this country but in many others. I used to tell my daughters, if you’re looking for a lovely time of year to be married, the beginning of May is that time. They were married in April, September and December.  So much for motherly advice. 

But what’s interesting about time and weather patterns is that I wouldn’t say this today. A decade or so ago, early May was a reliably beautiful time of year, prime azalea season, iris yet to pop, plenty of color amidst the green. These days it’s unsettled. We might have such a May 1, but more than likely we won’t. This year’s unseasonably warm winter means it’s looking decidedly summery, though it’s quite chilly, an odd combination, to say the least.

We talk a lot about climate change with its serious implications for life on this planet. But shifts in longtime patterns of growth and maturity, planting and harvesting, affect us more subtly too. They prey on our spirits and mess with our minds. 

(An azalea in its prime … on April 14, 2023.)

First Storm

First Storm

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It’s pouring as I write this post, and there’s lightning, too. The first thunderstorm of the season. It’s rained so little this spring that I’ve almost forgotten the thrill of it,

I think about the thunderstorms of my youth, wind whistling through open windows, the rush to close the ones the rain was pouring through. The delicious feel in the air afterwards. There’s chemistry involved, I later learned, something about negative ions and positive mood.

What a cozy way to spend a Sunday morning, nothing expected except figuring out how to get the newspaper, which is outside … somehow … into the house.

(Rain is hard to photograph; this is one time I almost captured it. New York City, July 2021.)

Hold Onto Your Hood

Hold Onto Your Hood

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The wind that made beach combing and cycling harder than they needed to be last week in Chincoteague seems to have followed us home. For the last couple of days there have been gusts up to 40 or 45 miles per hour. 

I decided to take a walk anyway, because I was driving past the W&OD and thought I’d give it a whirl. A whirlwind was more like it. 

The breeze blustered, it careened, it nearly knocked me off my feet. And while my hat was fairly secure, my hood was anything but, especially when I was walking into the wind. It blew it right off my head. At times it took both hands on the hood to keep it from flying back.

Luckily, a hood is usually attached to a coat whereas a hat is not. Which makes the phrase “hold onto your hood” … somewhat nonsensical. 

(“Who has seen the wind?” The ripples in this sand dune prove it was there.)

Strings Attached

Strings Attached

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This is not a complaint, so I hope the weather gods don’t take it as one. But the human body is more comfortable when it stays in one temperature range for a season. When it’s 70 degrees one day and 40 the next, it does something to a body. In short, it makes it shiver, then roast, then shiver again.

Today the high is forecast to be 80 degrees. This is February 23, I’ll point out. Daffodils are blooming. Snowdrops and hellebores have been out for weeks. By Saturday we may have snow.

Perhaps this is just a cycle, a La Niña phenomenon. But  unseasonable winter warmth — and these crazy yo-yo cycles, too — now carry with them a tinge of guilt and fear. In their balminess are denuded forests,  smoke clouds, flooded homes, loss. 

I love warm weather. But not with these strings attached. 

(This photo was taken in Washington, D.C., on January 24, 2023.)

Snow Sparkles

Snow Sparkles

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Puxatawney Phil has seen his shadow, predicting six more weeks of winter. Though the two-inch daffodil shoots and the flowering hellebores may disagree with that assessment, the low temps and blustery winds make it easy to believe. 

As I look out my office window this gray morning I see pockets of snow still left from yesterday’s dusting, including a thick rind of the frozen stuff curled around the trampoline. It drew my eye before the sun came up, its whiteness gleaming in the dusk.

I’m glad I took an early walk yesterday, while snow still clung to every branch and  twig. As I strolled, the wind blew clumps of flakes off the boughs. The clumps exploded in a fine dust that sparkled in the air. 

(Yesterday, before the melting.)

Forty-Five

Forty-Five

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The outdoor thermometer needs a new battery. For the last four days it has recorded the temperature as 45. That’s 45 night or day, sunny or cloudy, morning or afternoon. 

It has me thinking about 45 — the middle-ness of it, its commodiousness. Want winter? Forty-five will do. Scarves and gloves aren’t out of place in the mid-40s. If you live in warm climes and are looking for an excuse to take your wool sweater out of mothballs, 45 provides it.

And yet, 45 can go warmer, too. You don’t need a hat in 45, for instance.  And if you’re moving briskly through space, which I often am, 45 can feel like 55 in a jiffy. 

If your thermometer must be stuck, then, it could do worse than to be stuck at 45. 

Strange But True

Strange But True

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It’s been in the 60s these past few days, a welcome blast of warmth that almost makes up for late December’s frigid temperatures. But it’s also a little strange, as unseasonable weather tends to be. 

The holly berries look out of place in this balmy air, as do the Christmas lights still decorating houses up and down the street. 

This time last year an unexpectedly heavy snow blanketed the region, shut down Interstate 95 and left motorists stranded overnight in their cars. Today, it’s hard to imagine that. 

But this is weather in the age of climate change. 

(A photo from last year’s snow storm.)