Winter in northern California means periods of mild temperatures bookended by days of torrential rain. This wild ride continues from late December through early March. We in the Delta slog through puddles, muck, and sheets of water as we traverse to and from our vehicles, offices, and the grocery store. My sister asked if we would have umbrella bags in our new shop. My brow furrowed as I contemplated whether I had ever seen anyone carry an umbrella in California. I own several, of course; but I’m not sure they still work. We just dash here and there wearing what passes for coats and scarves. Natives casually stroll beneath the cold rain and grey skies with jackets flapping.
I often stand in my tiny yard and gaze upward at a dismal expanse. Migrating flocks head east in the morning to feed near the rivers. At dusk they return to our island to settle in the flooded furrows of nearby fallow fields. In the six years that I’ve lived here, I’ve lost some of the bodily resilience of my Midwestern roots. People whom I mocked during my early ex-pat days raise an eyebrow when they see me wrapped in layers of wool. My friends in Kansas City post pictures of snow, ice, and weather widgets proclaiming the impending Armageddon. Four degrees! Minus ten! Sleet, ice, closed schools! And here I dwell, nighttime air in the mid-40s, blue skies for half the week.
But I’m still cold. There’s a kernel of ice somewhere deep in my spirit that emanates a pervasive chill. In my reflective moments, I suspect that I have miles to go before I could hope to restore whatever broken pieces of myself I might still salvage. Once upon a time, I wrote a poem about a broken heart-shaped bottle that held a plant on my window sill. In actuality and in the clumsy verse, I swept those pieces into a trashcan and continued with the mundane affairs of the day. Such nonchalance now eludes me. Still, I can’t say if I’m cold because I’m lonely, or because my body has grown unaccustomed to the sting of winter breezes.
This morning I emerged from the house with my usual clumsy amble. I stood on the steps of my porch and studied the little garden that my neighbor Bri has deftly revived. The rain has seeped into the rich soil into which Bri transplanted my struggling succulents and the few non-succulents that I had not yet killed. Her gentle ministration saved my neglected garden. Here and there, little blooms unfurl. As I descended the stairs, I stopped to admire the sturdiness of these potted gems. In those few moments, I swear to you, I felt that hard cold nugget deep within me start to thaw.
It’s the seventeenth day of the one-hundred and twenty-first month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.
