She sulks. She's overcast. She drizzles rain 24/7 until about March 31st – sometimes April – when the sun reappears and we all get reacquainted.
At this time of year, Vancouver seemingly forgets about 6 months of utter weather bliss and gets cranky, self-righteous, and generally whiny.
Personally, I don't mind the brooding.
Maybe because I, too, am brooding.
Stewing over an emotionally charged year of great triumph and utter failure.
Sulking for what could have been.
Mourning for what wasn't.
Sure, there are clouds. So thick that my mountain view now seems like a view into a depressing abyss of nothingness.
Things are grey and murky.
But the great thing about brooding time is that it's the bottom. And from the bottom comes the light.
And hope. And excitement. And an opportunity to do it all again.
To learn from mistakes.
To try to choose the right path.
To go left when every one else is going right just because it feels right.
And to give it another go with renewed enthusiasm. It's like take II or III or IV in a big ol' play of life.
And I appreciate the opportunity to sit back, take a look, reflect, and prepare to give it another go when the sun shines again.
Still, Mother Nature is pouring it on thick.
The clouds are hanging low over the city making landmarks dissipate into the sky.
The ocean is grey.
The sun is hibernating.
Most people are seeking shelter in coffee shops, book stores, and movie theatres.
Sometimes, I am one of them.
But most times, I'm beating my own drum.
After all, brooding time is the perfect time to test what we're made of.
When you couple brooding with best intentions, it's easy to see all the good things between the rain drops.
Like the way that drizzling rain feels on your face half-way through a long run. When you look up and the drops explode on your cheeks and eyelids. It's refreshing. Invigorating.
Like the way that every sunless day inevitably ends with a moody blue and pink sunset under the veil of clouds.
Like the way that even 30 minutes in the rain yields no wetness. It's like you're dancing between the drops the whole time.
Like the way that rain and puddles in the city mean fluffy white snow and fun times in the mountains.
Like the way that muddy pants and soaking wet shoes show resilience and toughness and make you feel just a little bit kick ass.
Like the way that a 9-year-old mutt who spends all day snoozing finds her inner puppy when she's drenched to the bone, covered in mud, and sniffing 200-year-old Douglas Firs.
Brooding.
It's not so bad.
My cleats after training in the park on wet and woolly morning.
My workout pants after a morning trail run.
Harls and me at Lighthouse Park on a drizzly afternoon.
The grey yet gorgeous Pacific Ocean.
