I’m not having any luck seeing Perseids this year. I may go out again tonight after I post this, and there’s still tomorrow night, too. But it just feels like I’m being thwarted by high, thin clouds that are just opaque enough to prevent me from seeing any meteors. I’m bummed out about that.
We did get a good walk in tonight, though. At first I didn’t think we’d get in a longer one since there were flash flood warnings earlier in the day. We decided to risk it, though. Thank goodness the oppressive humidity lightened just enough as we did a long walkabout to make it bearable – and then the sky actually became entertaining.
August Beauty – Photo: L. Weikel
I’m finding myself sitting here writing to you about the clouds we were oohing and ah-ing over as we walked this evening. I’ve deleted most of what I wrote. It would probably serve us all more if I just shared the photos I took.
The sky wore many masks today. Sometimes only a minute or two would go by and the tone and tenor of the entire world above our heads transformed.
August Beauty One Minute Later – Photo: L. Weikel
While there was plenty of entertainment playing out in the sky, there was a part of me that was a bit melancholy and distracted.
I find myself still feeling that way now. Sadly, those emotions generally serve to stunt my inspiration.
So I’m just going to share with you the many faces of the sky this afternoon and this evening, and hope that inspiration gives me another look tomorrow.
The accuracy of the weather forecasts so far this season has not been impressive. I realize meteorology is an imprecise science, given the whims and vagaries of the elements, but I really thought the field had its act together better than this.
We awakened this morning to a lovely coating of ice on practically everything living: trees, plants, grasses. Not so much coating on inanimate objects, though. And the roads were, luckily, a piece of cake.
There is a crystalline beauty to ice storms, though. And it’s much easier to appreciate that beauty if you are lucky enough not to lose boughs off your trees or electricity due to downed wires. I’m grateful to report that we lost neither limb nor light.
Nevertheless, It Persisted
I was surprised that the coating of ice on all the branches didn’t melt as the day wore on. In fact, even though the temperature hovered right around 33, I actually think some of the coatings grew thicker. In spite of expectations of yielding and bending to thermodynamic facts, the ice nevertheless persisted. All day – and into tonight.
Fire In the Belly
And in spite of the cold and raw temperatures that dominated the day, several hundred people gathered outside Congressman Brian Fitzpatrick’s (R-PA 01) home office to demand that he represent the will of his constituents and vote yes in tomorrow’s impeachment vote in the House of Representatives.
I have to admit, I’m actually starting to feel like an old hand at this protesting stuff. For each cause I’ve been moved to show up for and speak out about (climate change, women’s rights, immigration reform – particularly the separation and caging of families and children – and now impeachment, among others), I’ve found my fellow protestors to be kind, polite, peaceful, yet passionate – with a fire in their belly for what they believe is right and just for all.
The only one of my photos I could upload. (The others will arrive tomorrow via email from my phone to my laptop.) Thanks, VZ wireless. Photo: L. Weikel
A Sense of Melancholy
Perhaps it was the ice. Perhaps it was the rain. Perhaps it was the effect of both working to dampen the fire in everyone’s belly. While there absolutely was a sense of determination in this crowd, a resolute insistence that no one is above the law, the evening felt tempered by a sense of melancholy.
For all the hundreds of people there demanding the president be held accountable for his transgressions, there was a pocket of about 30 of those who feel he is an example of everything that’s right with the world.
What I noticed was their meanness.
A large white diesel pickup truck with the barest excuse for a muffler rode slowly among the rows of parked cars behind the crowd revving its engine. Over and over. Just revving its diesel engine, spewing fumes as it crawled from one row to another, quite obviously on a mission not to park, but to distract and annoy. We made a point of moving deeper into the plaza.
So it was ironic that 45 minutes later, the driver of that same vehicle took notice of us as we were leaving. Just as we were unlocking our car, I heard the familiar revving again. I glanced toward the truck, as it once again started revving its engine as it waited in line to exit the parking lot. The driver, a young man probably in his mid to late 20s, had his window down and his left arm hanging out the window and down the door of the truck’s cab. Picking up on my glance, he looked over at me with a grimace and quite distinctly called me a “fucking whore.”
Really?
He followed it up with a taunt that I should enjoy driving home in my “piece of shit Prius,” then revved his engine again, apparently for emphasis.
Wow. I’d only glanced in his direction precisely because he kept revving his engine. He’d been looking for attention. And when he received it, when I made eye contact, he used the opportunity to hurl an ugly heap of nasty on me.
That’s when the melancholy hit me hardest. I looked at Karl, who I could tell wanted to respond but was actively choosing not to engage, and felt a wave of despair. Talk like that, antagonism toward us as someone ‘other’ than their own family and friends, is disheartening.
Here we are, speaking up and taking a stand for this kid to live in a country where the elite do not have more or better rights than he does. And here he is, taking the part of those who would exploit him at the drop of a hat. Buying the lies that the powerful use to divide us.
I don’t know how to heal the wounds if we can’t even agree on a shared reality anymore.
Why is it that so many of us find it difficult to give ourselves permission to indulge in those experiences that make us feel wistful when we contemplate them? And why do we consider engaging in those experiences indulgent?
When I started writing this post, I was surprised by how I almost feel naughty when imagining myself basking in evening silence, giving myself all the time I desire to immerse myself in another world for a while or write in my journal. And I could almost hear that same tinge-of-guilt-yearning in many of the comments I read to yesterday’s musing.
What is it about indulgence? Does it mean to give ourselves permission to do something risqué?
Nope!
According to the World Book Dictionary, to ‘indulge’ means: v. to give way to one’s pleasure (in); let oneself have use, or do what one wants; to give in to the wishes or whims of; humor.
Why Do We Make Ourselves Wrong?
I find it fascinating that my knee-jerk reaction to ‘letting myself do what I want’ – particularly something as nurturing as disconnecting from the chaos of the outside world – is something that provokes a vague sense being flighty or irresponsible or, as I said above, slightly naughty.
It’s weird.
Why is the idea of spending our time in ways that bring smiles to our hearts and joy to our eyes considered humoring ourselves?
When I let myself ‘go deep’ and really think about how much time any of us have in a particular lifetime, and how I actually spend my time, I can quickly lapse into a state of pre-melancholy if I’m not careful. There are a lot of things I do mindlessly. A lot of activities that I only do because, ugh – I hate to admit it – ‘everyone else does.’
Start Indulging In the Good Stuff NOW
I do not want to get to the end of my life and wish I’d indulged myself more often.
Because why the hell shouldn’t I indulge myself now? And why shouldn’t you? My indulgences are not of the sort that hurt anyone else. They don’t even harm either my own body or soul, as one might argue excessive drinking or debauchery (what a great word, that) might. While I do not know what your indulgences might entail, I imagine many are of a sweet, creative nature.
Permitting yourself to write those poems. Giving yourself an uncluttered space to paint. Shoving the couch to the side of the room and allowing yourself to dance. Allowing yourself to listen to the wind and play that haunting tune you hear on your acoustic guitar.
I feel a revolution coming on. A revolution of indulgence.
What secret yearning do you hold within that calls for you to humor today? Join me.
