Perhaps the Rolling Stones should have written a song called Paint It Grey. At least the thought of the color black carries with it certain emotional connotations. It is easy to feel down in Missoula, Montana, during the months of winter and early spring. In the last five days, the sun has shown its face only once. Words like dull, drab, dreary, and Edgar Allen Poe come to mind. The sky seems to be changeless, and it reminds us that winter is in full swing.
After living in Missoula for eighteen months, I think I can understand why humans worshipped the sun for millennia. The Greeks had Apollo. The Egyptians had Ra. We have Capitalism. Whenever we feel down, the American societal remedy seems to be to go out and buy something that we can show to our neighbors. Forgive me for not subscribing to the popular deities of George, Andrew, and Benjamin
But in truth, the Missoula valley has made me appreciate the rapidly changing weather on the plains of my youth. In Missoula, if it’s raining when you wake up in the morning, it will likely rain all day. Likewise, if the sun shines in the morning, it will shine until it sets across the Bitterroot Mountains to the west. Where I grew up, there was a saying: If you don’t like the weather wait five minutes and it’ll change. Here you can wait five days without seeing a new cloud or the tiniest ray of sunlight.
Over a year ago, my parents planned to visit me for Thanksgiving. As it turned out, their flight was canceled due to heavy fog in the valley. When I say “heavy fog,” I mean thicker than pea soup. (It was at least on par with potato soup. Maybe even grandma’s gravy.) Simply riding my bike across town scared me because I couldn’t see the handle bars in front of my face, let alone the oncoming traffic. During that spell of nasty weather, we didn’t see the sun for almost three weeks (I know, I counted). Some of my older friends who are also graduate students remember calling Missoula “Mordor” long before The Lord of the Rings became cool again.
Yet despite all this, seasons do change. Though I am well trained as an historian, I find it difficult to think in concepts of linear time. (At this point, I will offer my apologies to St. Augustine and my traditional Christian upbringing as well as my confession of heresy before the Inquisition.) I know that the Poe-inspiring days of winter will soon yield spring and a return of the sun. The flowers will bloom again, the skies will be clear, and the deer will feed on fresh grass in my front yard. There is a certain rhythm to life is this place.
I live in hope of that natural rhythm. The changing of the seasons is the heartbeat of the world. Without the pulse, our existence would go into cardiac arrest. Each season brings another beat in time. Each beat brings us one cycle closer to beginning the process of birth, youth, maturity, and death once more. The changes cannot be stopped. Because of this, I will embrace the cloudy skies. I know the darkness means the sun will shine once more. And somehow I will cope, even though the Rolling Stones missed the mark.
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An excerpt from "Shadowlands":
JOY: I love the sun. People used to worship the sun. I can understand it.
LEWIS: I can understand people who worship the sun in England, where the sun is invisible. But here— look at it, hanging around like a waiter hoping for a tip. No class. No mystery.
Good post, as always. Your second paragraph made me think of the above scene, especially the line about the ancient gods. Oh, the deification of nature. I can understand it though. I'd like to think that if I'd lived thousands of years ago in ancient Ireland that I'd have been a Druid priest, studying the sky and keeping the mysteries.
I've been thinking about my youth recently and how we don't really change. We just get older. Maybe growing up isn't about becoming an adult. Perhaps it's more about accepting or coming to grips with who you are; a continual unveiling, a revelation of the true self.
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