Perhaps, in hindsight, it is the anticipation of the precipitation that is receives the most adoration. Exhilarating expectations ignited in advance, by modern meteorological magicians. Casting invisible Doppler prediction spells, (in form of uneducated guesses), with a radar-directed wave of a clicker wand. Across a green screened cauldron of varying high- and low-pressure systems.
For the most part isn’t this oft true of all things? Not how the mystical man of weather’s mission is a guessing game. Rather that the excitement leading up to an event exceeds and at times even surpasses the event itself. Much akin to it being more about the journey than the final destination. Of course, that all depends on where you’re going and how long it takes to get there.
The reasonable assumption for this whimsical mentality would be that in the preliminary pre-event prep our imaginations and daydreams are unbound. Unhindered by a reality that has yet to materialize. Ergo we perceive an unattainable definition and envisionment of- what dreams may come. When angel wings molt, and the sky begins to freeze and fall upon us.
As we retire for the evening a glance at the clear night sky holds no promise. Of promises made by those from within our magic boxes of either the handheld or 50-inch variety. Yet the chill in the air and each materialized breath we see in it retains potential.
Come the dawn, hope springs anew and is renewed. As the dawn itself is obscured in billowing remnants of gray. They hold a secret above our heads and are bemused by the inquiries on our upturned faces.
Thus, the days since the outlook of the forecast ten, have become hours. The hours have dwindled to minutes. The minutes begrudgingly drudging out to… ah here… it is finally upon us.
It is in the here and now that many will claim distaste, and others will purvey outright loathing. These emotions and proclamations are spawned from negative foresight. Breeding a brooding impending dread of long lines at the market. Senseless battles over gallons and loaves. A needless need for fossilized fuels. Exacerbated by the inability and lack of need to travel. The aftermath, the mud, the mess, the day after…
Ah but in that initial moment. As it begins. When one cannot help but to look heavenward to its source. We are all in awe.
Maybe, in that initial instance, our inner child bubbles and clambers its way to the surface of our worldly vessels. Or perchance deep preexistent memories of our own time in the heavens draw us into the wonder of it all. There’s literally magic in the air. Floating down and blowing all about us. In prestigiously pure finite white.
We want to, we must see its beauty. Feel it’s casual chilling caress. Be out in it and of it. Becoming part of its majestic majesty.
But as the flaky flurries fall focused fascination falters. Is it sticking? Will it stick? Is it slippery? Is it slick? Worry replaces wonder. Malice befalls magic. It becomes a sight for foresight. Dangerous and deadly to the wickedly ignorant.
Rush into the rapidly freezing fray. Hurry home and then shelter away. Endangering ourselves and those along our way. Over caution taken too slow. Creates peril too you know. Don’t have nary worry or care. Pretending like it isn’t there. Well… that’s just stupid.
We go our ways in our own time and fashion. Safe arrival pending. We are in out of it. But cannot help but look back out at it.
Thus, following the potentially panicked period, there is a pleasant proceeding pause. As flake turns fluff. And dandruff turns down.
Wrapped in the warmth of a woolen robe. Over the brim and through the steam of a two-hand held cup of coffee (shot of brandy optional). Through a winter frosted windowpane, we watch looking out and up, as it comes down.
We bear silent witness as our world is erased. Coated, covered, cleansed. Until the stark whiteness of it all is all but blinding.
Before us lies a blank canvas. Later we will scar it, taint it, perhaps make a man of it. Spoiling it as we do all things.
But for now, before then. Savor the emptiness of the nothing. And embrace the potential of everything it could be.
I welcome almost all questions, comments via Focus, or E-mail me at wanderingchainsaw@gmail.com. Hope to hear from ya, until then try and stay focused! See ya.
