The fog lifted and dispersed early in the day on this Monday, giving way to a promise of a gorgeous fall day, the season that is so often the brightest and warmest in our corner of the world. I tried to capture the same view of the mountain this morning as I had of it in the previous post from last night, just to see what changes the light brings. If not to the view, at least my take on it in words…
While I was waxing poetic about biking and being in the moment in the light of the setting sun, this morning, the light and weather report took me down a bumpy memory lane and had me apply a few proverbial brakes on the runaway speed of thoughts that were heading downhill.
I was thinking of the particular style of a loved one who never tires of complaining about the weather, which is always the worst at the moment that person speaks of it to me. For the longest time, I thought that talking about the weather was this person’s way of trying to connect, to find common ground. For the longest time, though, I also felt somehow responsible for the suffering the weather kept inflicting on this person. But this morning, as I tried to slow the pace of guilt set on the same course downhill, I realized that the weather happens to be the one thing in this person’s life that is completely outside control, real or imagined.
Over the years, it seems to me, I have become much like the weather to this loved one: out of reach and a constant extreme experience. I let myself drift out of the reach of the control this person kept over the image of me that reflected back an image of none other than the person in question. An image, though which glowed with the gilded embellishments of a better self….