I always smile when Minnesota weather changes for the drastic. I’m talking about autumn’s often-sudden change to frigid winter, or spring’s often-similar change to scorching summer. Every year, it’s the same: people seem to have forgotten what hot or cold weather is like. It always comes as a shock, as if it hasn’t happened every year since, well, maybe the last ice age. People gasp when they realize a mid-November day might reach 23 degrees. They look dumbfounded when a June day actually reaches the 102 high.
Guess what? I’m one of those people. The weather here in Minneapolis has made a turn toward winter, at least in temperature. I’m still desperately clinging to my fall jacket like there’s no tomorrow, thinking that maybe—just maybe—I’ll work it for another day. Never mind that it’s now over three years old and needs to be replaced. I shiver along with everyone else, looking flustered with my rosy cheeks as I step onto the bus with all the other commuters, trying to ignore my near-frozen legs and unpleasantly chilled iPhone.
So, why do I love when nature does this to us? As unpleasant as it can sometimes be, it becomes a shared experience. People get this unexpectedly unexpected shock together, and for a week or two—maybe a month?—everyone has something in common. That freezing wind gust that messes a woman’s perfect blonde hair might be the same one that makes a wannabe-but-not tough guy like me wish he had gloves instead of pockets. When the bus driver opened both doors today and that rush of cold air blew through, I bet every single person riding home felt it, thought about it, and shared a moment of mutual consciousness. It’s just how we human beings work, whether we notice it or not.
Personally, I’m partial to the change from autumn to winter. I’d rather have frostbite than sweat dripping down my back when I walk into work, and I no longer have to feel guilty when I spend my weekend mornings working on books at Starbucks. Most important is the fact that I no longer need air conditioning to drink my morning tea. Still, the sense of belonging that comes with sharing this experience of nature with literally every nearby human being is quite powerful. It reminds me that we were all put on this planet to interact. To cross other people’s paths, change them if only slightly, then move on to live the rest of our lives. And the bonus? You just never know when you’ll find someone new to take along for the ride.
In a few short months, the shock of the season will have worn off, and most of us will want to be in Aurba. Some might actually be there. I’ll probably be stuck at Starbucks, working on a book, enjoying the fake fire place and forgetting about those looming June days bound to reach 102.
Guess what? I’m one of those people. The weather here in Minneapolis has made a turn toward winter, at least in temperature. I’m still desperately clinging to my fall jacket like there’s no tomorrow, thinking that maybe—just maybe—I’ll work it for another day. Never mind that it’s now over three years old and needs to be replaced. I shiver along with everyone else, looking flustered with my rosy cheeks as I step onto the bus with all the other commuters, trying to ignore my near-frozen legs and unpleasantly chilled iPhone.
So, why do I love when nature does this to us? As unpleasant as it can sometimes be, it becomes a shared experience. People get this unexpectedly unexpected shock together, and for a week or two—maybe a month?—everyone has something in common. That freezing wind gust that messes a woman’s perfect blonde hair might be the same one that makes a wannabe-but-not tough guy like me wish he had gloves instead of pockets. When the bus driver opened both doors today and that rush of cold air blew through, I bet every single person riding home felt it, thought about it, and shared a moment of mutual consciousness. It’s just how we human beings work, whether we notice it or not.
Personally, I’m partial to the change from autumn to winter. I’d rather have frostbite than sweat dripping down my back when I walk into work, and I no longer have to feel guilty when I spend my weekend mornings working on books at Starbucks. Most important is the fact that I no longer need air conditioning to drink my morning tea. Still, the sense of belonging that comes with sharing this experience of nature with literally every nearby human being is quite powerful. It reminds me that we were all put on this planet to interact. To cross other people’s paths, change them if only slightly, then move on to live the rest of our lives. And the bonus? You just never know when you’ll find someone new to take along for the ride.
In a few short months, the shock of the season will have worn off, and most of us will want to be in Aurba. Some might actually be there. I’ll probably be stuck at Starbucks, working on a book, enjoying the fake fire place and forgetting about those looming June days bound to reach 102.
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1 comments:
It is snowing or sleeting (not quite sure which) as I write this comment. It is these shared experiences that help to remind us of our interconnectedness; however, what is equally uniting is when we share our stories as you did with our post. When we open up our lives, allow a little vulnerability to creep in, and share our experiences with others is when we truly connect. What is revealed to us in those moments is that despite all our apparent surface differences we are more alike than we allow ourselves to believe.
I too prefer the colder temps to sweat dripping down my back. A warm cup of peach ginger green tea seems more comforting when the wind is howling outside. However, does the three year old autumn jacket really need replacing? Perhaps it just needs to be pulled closer to you. Think of all the stories embedded in its fibers. True it may be time to put it to bed in the back of the closet until autumn rolls around again, but see if it doesn't have a few more adventures left in it to share with you. We are not just connected to everyone, but everything.
http://dm-bipossible.blogspot.com/
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