Today while I worked at the bookstore, the biggest snowstorm of the year hit Minnesota. It whitewashed the air, flocked the trees, drifted thickly over the ground, and obscured my view of…the Snyder’s drugstore across the street.
I love the weather; love its colors and textures, the sounds it makes, and how it changes the landscape. I love its force and changeability, and every time it does something awe-inspiring while I live in the city, I mourn our efforts to triumph over it. We see it coming, refuse to stay home in deference to it, and then clean up (or at least spoil) its effects within days if not hours. And in the city, the machinery of our lives — cars, buildings, billboards, stoplights, all of it — clutter the backdrop to the weather, uglifying and dulling our impression of it. A blizzard-struck street is by definition less vast and magnificent than a field or forest in the same conditions.
In the city, I have to grasp at my connection to the weather, consciously remind myself that what I’m looking at is breathtaking — or should be. And in the city, every time the weather stages a performance, I regret that I’m not watching from a better seat.
