If I didn’t know better, I would swear that today’s warm temperatures and blue sky are only an April teaser. I am still wearing my leggings and heavy sweatshirt to my early morning workouts at the gym. Two weeks ago, the doors were open, and the rowing machines were dragged outside. The next day we had frost. My newly planted peppers and tomatoes are continually struggling against cruel gusts and single-digit temperatures as they cling to the soil pressed firmly down around their young roots. The evening ritual includes a debate about which plants need to come indoors, whether we need the tarpaulin over the garden, and will the planters against the garage survive the never-ending assault from the northern gales.
Sipping coffee after a dog walk and garden inspection, confessing through my fingers to my laptop, I am confounded by the heat wave in Europe and our endless wind from the north. The dark green and brown squares of the rolling hills beyond our hedgerow confirm that the farmers believe it’s time to plant: no more frost, longer days, more sunshine. The apple blossoms are finally unfurled. The rain that has ruined several weekends, sent campers back to the city, and cottagers cursing Mother Nature, is welcomed by those who work the land.
During my university years, I did an internship at a hospital in Ottawa. It was spring, and I shared a student ghetto flat with four classmates, each of us working at a different healthcare facility. We slept on mattresses on the floor and stole milk crates from convenience stores for our clothes. One of our flatmates was a vegetarian, so we all decided to join her regimen. It was easier and cheaper.
My placement was at a rehabilitation hospital. A sprawl of red brick buildings set back from the busy street. I worked with stroke victims, a handsome young man who broke his neck diving into a pool, and a comical woman with advanced multiple sclerosis. I had my first viewing of a vasectomy scar as I taught my favourite stroke patient how to dress himself with one hand.
My supervisor, Rita, was a person governed by the barometer. She had tanned skin, a perfect dark brown shoulder-length bob, and always wore coral lipstick. Each day, she responded to my morning greeting by defining her mood and predictions for the day ahead according to the weather. She was happy and had lots of energy when the sun shone. She was impatient if it was too windy when she walked from her car to the entrance of the hospital. She felt gloomy if the skies were grey. She was tired when it rained. She counted down the weeks, then days, then hours, then minutes until she would be on the beach in Mexico. It was June. I hoped she already had a November booked. Now I wonder whether she was a plant, karmically recreated in a human body.
By now, I have lived through all kinds of weather. I have been horrified by pictures and headlines of earthquakes, typhoons, tsunamis, volcanoes, tornadoes and floods. We now have frequent apocalyptic forest fires and ice storms. There are mudslides, rockslides, atmospheric rivers, heat domes, and snowstorms that require military intervention. The winds that careen up the valley now tear the shingles from our roof.
I feel the weight of my years when I comment on the shift and ferocity of weather patterns. It challenges me to be resilient and tenacious instead of fading into a comfortable chair with a book and blanket on my lap. I am relieved to still feel joy in the change of the seasons, awe at Mother Nature’s aggression, and energy to be in the weather rather than an observer.
For now, I wish to be a warrior against the elements. There may come a time when I need to retreat to a more hospitable and blander climate ~ not yet.