Weather

“We would be together and have our books and at night be warm in bed with the windows open and the stars bright.” – Ernest Hemingway

My two closest friends in medical school went to Stanford for undergrad, and all they could talk about upon moving to Boston was how perfect Bay Area weather was, all the time. It became the launching point for explications on all the perfections of California, and after listening to this ad nauseum for years, I’ll admit I became a bit contrarian. I told myself I’d rather be shivering in my down coat in muddy snow under endingly gray skies than raving on arrogantly about the meteorologic supremacy of some state.

Naturally, I married a guy from California and became potentially the first person to move here predisposed to dislike the weather. I like rain (at least the sound of rain as I’m sitting indoors); I love snow (at least fresh snow); I don’t mind the cold. I knew I would miss the vibrant, crisp autumns of the East, and I do. Autumn here feels slightly fabricated—we’re all still going about in our sleeveless shirts in sunny seventy-degree weather in the middle of October, but oh, it must be fall because Trader Joe’s has come out with pumpkin stuff again!

What I’ve grudgingly realized, though, is that the perfection of the weather here really must be experienced to be understood. There’s the 70-degree sunny days, of course. But there’s also the lack of humidity—at resting heart rates, one never sweats here. There are no mosquitos to speak of. There’s the surreal consistency of it all—months and months and months of predictably perfect climes. It’s not a matter of comfort as much as lifestyle. It has done nothing less than transform our existence. We’re outside all the time, bicycling down the streets or visiting the numerous parks that exist every few blocks. It’s easier to exercise; we can grow all kinds of fruits and vegetables; we leave toys outside and open windows and plan outdoor gatherings without a second thought.

But my favorite thing about the weather happens in the evenings, when a bit of East-coast fall descends every day. It turns a bit cooler; you can slip on a cardigan or shawl, sometimes even a cozy sweater. It turns crisp, a bit breezy. There’s nothing quite so pleasant as opening our bedroom windows or lying in a hammock in the dusk.

I think there’s something about humid green landscapes, brilliantly fiery leaves, blankets of snow, and cherry blossoms in the spring, that I will always miss amid this almost foreign perfection. But well, the weather here truly is a radical blessing. It must be lived in to be understood, as I suppose applies to most truths in life. Somehow I have finally come to a point where I can embrace it without losing who I was. I hope I never lose the wonder of living in it. 

Life Balance

We are on the latest iteration of evaluating work-life balance, that place of pressured reflection which comes after a building sense of depletion. The challenges seem greater here, without my parents, with less flexible and more demanding jobs, greater difficulty finding childcare, and the kids’ needs becoming more disparate as their ages now span three through nine—but in some ways the process is still the same.

Assess for burnout: do we have any of the symptoms (exhaustion, lack of motivation, cynicism and dread, resentment and irritability, or helplessness), and have we built in prevention practices (permission and pacing, community, hobby, physical care, spiritual space) or have those fallen by the wayside? Revisit mission and values: how much margin or focus have we lost? Examine our logistical life and emotional and spiritual health: are we spending our energy and time in a way that is consistent with what we say we believe?

This go-round, I’m being convicted that it’s not primarily about balance, aiming for equilibrium by shifting pieces around on the scales. It’s not about juggling, trying to keep all the balls in the air. There is no growth or joy in that, just survival, and as far as I can tell, Paul never describes the Christian life as a calibration—he uses the language of growth. We are a building growing up, he says, and a building always has a foundation, a cornerstone that provides both stability and direction, that lays out the lines of our lives and provides sure support. Logistical adjustments are okay and often necessary, but ultimately returning to rest and health is not so much a logistical calculation as a reorientation of focus. God is not an item on the list of my priorities; he is the list. My marriage is not a bullet on my to-do list; it is the primary earthly relationship from which so much else, including the health of our family, flourishes.

When it comes to foundational things, there aren’t shortcuts. Manufacturing grace and affection for Dave only goes so far if my heart and mind aren’t truly on him. Resisting the temptation to sin in my thought life or how I treat the kids only goes so far if I’m not closely relying on the Spirit and the Bible through daily engagement. Reposturing is an inward, conscious decision to consistently invest in what is most important, not what is most urgent or clamorous. It can require sacrifice, engagement in disciplines, or expending time or money. But once you have the foundation down, you know what direction to build, and you’re not afraid of how heavy it might be.