This blog has been dark the past week as I was away in New Hampshire with my husband’s relatives, celebrating Thanksgiving for the first time in the US (for me). I hope the photo above shows how crisp and wintry it has become, though the lovely indoor fireside shots turned out too blurry to provide the counterpoint.
As I write, a storm rages – literal, not metaphorical. The winds are moaning and whipping around the flat at 50mph, and the rain is looking for a crack to creep in. I have been doing my best impression of a zombie, shaking and shuffling around the house – come down again with a fever, while across the pond my mother and father, due to fly over for a visit, are stuck in 4 feet of freak snow.
At times like this, when the weather is fierce, my mood is always high. Even while achy and chilled. I love a good storm, remembering the constant winds of my childhood — our house on a hill overlooked the blustery moors and the cuillins and tabletop mountains beyond, all very gothic, except that the house was a sweet, modern, pebbledashed bungalow. I remember the fun of running into a 60 mile and hour wind, my brother and I lifting the sails of our jackets and leaning forwards so we’d be knocked backwards a few paces, though keeping our balance, like astronauts bouncing in the craters of the moon. The possibility of taking flight from the earth not all that remote in our heads…wind as a force that could be harnessed in small ways, even by children. A plaything, though much greater than oneself. There is something very consolatory about that. We are not always at the mercy of or fighting to protect ourselves from the elements. Throw yourself head on into the cold lashing rain and wind, and feel alive through simple pleasures.
The trick is to keep the fierce wind roaring inside, when all around is static and stale and lonely, and the cursor flashing coldly towards an unknown future…