The January I am used to is filled with grey and rain and clouds and mud. For years I would go to work in the dark and return home in the dark. One January, it rained every single day. Imagine it -- no sunshine, no glimpses of blue sky, just dreary pouring rain. I got used to it, somehow. I exercised a lot to keep my spirits up, drank lots of coffee and wine, and made lots of rich savory winter meals. I am the kind of person who prefers to be curled up inside so rain is just an extra incentive to do what I love to do -- nest.
This is why it is so strange that this January, my first in San Francisco, is filled with sun. There have been days upon days of sun in January. For the past days it has been above sixty-five degrees. People run outside in tank tops and short shorts. They sun themselves in chairs at outdoor cafes, reclining back so that every inch of their face, neck, and arms, is devoted to the rays. They play frisbee and eat ice cream. It is a little slice of June trapped in January.
But I am still not used to it. I put on layers that I strip once I have gone outside. I look at the blooming colors in wonder. I'm confused, so confused about where this goodness comes from. M. says we're in a drought. He is concerned about water levels and wants it to rain. "This isn't good," he says every day when he comes home from work.
But still, we watch the sun rise each morning while eating breakfast.