Over-wintered

by Nick Fyhrie

Today, someone appropriately told me that we are "over-wintered" (here on the east coast of the United States), I laughed and found it very true. Everyone in New York is over this rain, cold, windy, wet weather. At the same time, I try not to get too worked up about it. The sun, after all, was there all along when the clouds parted this evening.

photo courtesy Julien Fyhrie

photo courtesy Julien Fyhrie

It is such a marvel that we are even here at all and this is proved no better than book I am currently reading, "A Short History of Nearly Everything" by Bill Bryson. The atmosphere, which keeps us warm and absorbs and deflects comic rays and the like, extends only 120 miles upward. Seriously, this book is blowing my mind! We are constantly surviving and living even though we live under such very little protection from what would otherwise kill us. So while we are certainly "over-wintered," the uncomfortable and depressing weather keeps us alive too. 

a bird dies on the beach

a bird dies on the beach

Diana Ross still sings during a rain storm

Diana Ross still sings during a rain storm

and the sun still shines....

The all-satisfying sun, anaemia's enemy, 

Gives life to the worm and the rose impartially;

Evaporating care and sending it skywards

He brings honey to the hive, and to the mute mind words,

it is he who makes the ancient cripples young again

with the gaiety and gentleness of young children;

He orders the harvest to increase and flourish

in that old heart where life is the perpetual wish.

When he comes down into the city like a poet,

Transfiguring the values of things the most abject,

he enters like royalty, unaccompanied by officials,

all the palatial hotels and all the hospitals.

From "Le Soleil (The Sun)" by Charles Baudelaire in Les Fleurs du Mal (1857)