The sky this weekend spent a lot of time in the state between sun and rain.
I hate that. Just rain already.
When I know something I won’t like is coming, when I know something I enjoy must end, it weighs on me. This is a terrible flaw of mine. I let the anticipation of the eventual end of something good temper my enjoyment of it. The moment of anticipation of a downpour is worse than the rain itself.
The moment between “we need to schedule a meeting” and some chastisement, between “call me back right away” and terrible news, between drinking the barium and going into the MRI, between waking from sedation and getting a diagnosis I didn’t even know was on the table, between gathering clouds and rain: those are the moments that make me anxious and even angry. Just start pouring, because once I’m soaked I can’t get any wetter.
It must be my combination of Irish fatalism and Italian fire that makes me see a spring sky this way. When the wind blows a certain way or I’m reminded of mortality I want to shout at the world “Just get it over with and fall apart! You’re going to anyway.”
Sometimes the sun comes back out, though, and I abandon my fixation on entropy and remember there is something other than chaos out there for us. It may feel like forever since I’ve had any sign of it. Still, I know it’s there, though my tired heart and rattled guts try to convince me otherwise.
More though, than being able to appeal to hope or to acquiesce to catastrophe, I wish I could just rest in the liminal moment, and accept the gray sky and damp air as part of the current moment, without apprehension or regret.
