I spent the week before our February snowstorm waiting for its arrival, watching weather reports with amusement and excited anticipation. Maybe a little dread. The ten-day predictions changed every few hours, from a few inches of snow to the extreme of eight inches one day and eleven the next, then dialing it back again. Extreme for Portland anyway. I was just waiting, checking the weather the way I used to doom scroll for the daily news - what disaster is in store today? This was way more fun however than waking up thinking, what has he tweeted today?
Today the grandkids and I buried one of the baby scrub jays that live in the tall line of arborvitae lining the upper edge of our backyard.
All of Portland loses its mind on a day like this. We head out to soak up a winter's worth of soul sustaining sunshine. It's the promise that yes, change will come, even if it rains all the rest of this week. It's the acknowledgement that we did survive whatever personal hell was our winter.