First we adjust, then we adapt

Hello, again(?), from the cloud-covered, snow-showered, North Country. You’ve no doubt seen the news that last year was the hottest on record. I’m wondering if this year may qualify as the cloudiest. Here’s what we’re up against, according to the State Climatology Office: “... January 2020 followed a different path, finishing with less solar radiation than any January since records began at the U of M St. Paul Campus Climate Observatory in 1963.” 

cloudy, dreary, day after day

Photo by J. Harrington

According to our Minnesota Weather Guide, late next month is when “normal” daytime highs again reach freezing. That presents us with about six weeks before weather can really be expected to start to improve, as measured by those of us who consider open water, not ice, to be a normal condition. Meanwhile, with the help of the Better Half, I’ve sorted through my assortment of sweaters and reduced my holdings by a handful. It would be misleading to suggest we’re actually downsizing, but we are working on reducing clutter, including clothes that are rarely worn and that limit access to clothes worn more frequently, because closet space isn’t limitless. [If you’re old enough, remember Fibber McGee’s closet. If not, click the link.] All in all decluttering is a moderately productive way to spend time in the winter, given the kind of winter we’re “enjoying.” One of the ultimate rewards is that I’ll soon have space to actually sort out fly rods, reels, lines and gear before the season starts. I bet you suspected I had an ulterior motive, you sly devils.

Winter is a time when nature slows down and life is supposed to follow suite. I’ve racked up too many winters where that’s meant sitting on my duff and grumbling about the weather. As part of my efforts to improve my attitude, this winter I’m actually doing things other than grumble and wait for spring. So far, so good.

Winter Sun

By Molly Fisk

How valuable it is in these short days,

threading through empty maple branches,

the lacy-needled sugar pines.

 

Its glint off sheets of ice tells the story

of Death’s brightness, her bitter cold.

 

We can make do with so little, just the hint

of warmth, the slanted light.

 

The way we stand there, soaking in it,

mittened fingers reaching.

 

And how carefully we gather what we can

to offer later, in darkness, one body to another.

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