Weather

I have a friend whose father kept a journal of the weather.  Why would anyone do this in a world with hundreds of people officially designated to keep track of the weather and an almost infinite number of ways to reach them?

I think I understand.

I have always thought a window framing a beautiful scene one of the most perfect pieces of art.  Ever changing and yet, always the same.

Few things in life look like they did when I was a child, but the sky does.  I remember sitting on my grandma's side steps gazing up at cloud animals and wondering if I broke a piece of that blue sky out if it would it taste like butter cream frosting, or if I might get a peek at God.

Rainy days made me feel safe and cozy inside where I could curl up and read. 

Weather is the constant in my life.  Sunshine, storm clouds, cumulus clouds, snow, ice, even the leaves of trees blowing upside down predicting rain -- these things speak to me of eternity, of life cycling over and over and over again.

There is comfort in the weather.  It is timeless and real, powerful and sweet.  It shows no favorites, cannot be bought or sold and although what humans do does affect it, it will be here long after people are gone.

Keeping a journal of the weather is one way of holding on, of claiming a place, of making it known, even if only for a short while, that I am part of something huge and indiscernible and even if that part is only the oil on one of the cogs -- it is something.