As this is being written, a blustery wind sends sheets of rain across the field and shakes music from the wind chimes. The temperature is in the mid-50s and the bright whirlygig by the gate spins in stark contrast to the muted background of wet spruce. There is joy in mudville. As the temps rise and the rain falls, a deep sense of well-being enfolds me.
I know that most folks love the clear, cold weather we’ve had lately, with crunchy morning grass and sunshine, but not me. I don’t trust winter sunshine and hate being cold. With every rise in barometric pressure, my internal anxiety level matches it until I’m as jumpy as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.