There’s a U.S. military arsenal not far from where I live—adjacent to the small township in which my ex-wife grew up in Ohio.
The story I always heard is that the government chose this area to build a military facility because it is statistically the cloudiest place in the United States—making satellite surveillance of this region particularly difficult.
I don’t know whether this really is the cloudiest place in the country. But it’s so gray that I’m not sure it matters. We have our share of pleasant weather in the summer and autumn seasons.
But winter? Even spring?
It’s certainly the cloudiest place I’ve ever lived, and that’s including two other locations in Ohio hours away from here.
A lot of clouds. A lot of gray. A lot of sad.
It’s the Great Lakes.
There’s a lot of water. And water makes clouds.
The grayness feels like a prison sometimes.
Whenever you fly out of here in particularly cloudy weather, it’s always fun to break through the cloud barrier into the clear skies at high altitudes.
Day after day after day of the clouds can sometimes wear on you. Mentally. Spiritually. Emotionally.
I don’t believe it’s a coincidence they call the ailment SAD, or seasonal affective disorder.
But ever the positive spinster, the geographic conditions do cause one lovely side effect. When the skies are clear and the grass is green, we tend to take notice.
We tend to not take it for granted. We tend to soak it in. We tend to feel gratitude.
So it is today.
The only remnants of winter, a few small snow piles that have yet to succumb to melting.
The grass, green.
The sky, blue. So blue.
The bare tree branches criss-crossing the blank canvass, giving our eyes more access to the big, blue heavens.
It’s not forever.
It’s only a glimpse.
Merely a sample.
One small taste.
A whisper of spring.
Silent and still.
To hear the whisper.
Sudden noise may scare it away.
So it waits.
And so we wait.
So still that it lingers.
Like a promise.
A promise that tomorrow, and next week, and next month can be better than now.
A promise of rebirth.
To do what we want.
To be who we want.
But, don’t hurry.
Winter’s not through, yet.
There’s still time.
For the world to spin.
For wounds to heal.
For scars to form.
For dreams to take root.
So for now, we wait.
Not on our time.
On nature’s time.
Not what we want.
But what is right.
That sweet day, full of warmth, light and birdsong.
When new life begins.
And we climb once more.