Thursday, June 23, 2011
Back to socks, jeans, and sweatshirts: the weather page on Village Soup shows rain and cold through Sunday. I know summer is short in Maine, but this is ridiculous.
Or not. The firs and spruces on Sheep Island across the bay glow in the low-hanging clouds, nearly fog, slightly lit by a little brightness on the horizon. Flowers blaze away in the grayness, drinking in the rain. Grass looks even greener than yesterday. Air traffic is curtailed. I'm planning on being terribly productive today: no drooling on the deck, no aimless walking in the sun, no staring into nothingness. It's a soft and gentle day, and there are no wars or tornadoes or floods in the immediate vicinity.
Beauty is bought by judgement of the mind, to paraphrase Shakespeare, and while the eye has to look a little closer on the so-called gloomy days, the mind will find beauty in spite of the facts. Optimism like this may be a chemical reaction, a set of pre-determined pathways run by genes and their messengers, but it may also be a matter of will, determination, faith or any other inexplicable, non-scientific chimera. Fog is a natural home for optimism - you can imagine all kinds of wondrous beasts wading in from the sea to embrace you.