Witnessing Weather

We are at the cabin now, blessed with a highspeed internet hookup and projects. The spring is blooming into glorious summer. Even though we have electricity, plumbing, and our dsl line, we are so much more aware of weather here than in the city. It's not like we're living in a tent, but for some reason, it feels close to that.

A lot of it is our metal roof; even the slightest sprinkle announces itself. Beyond that, thunder is louder here. The wind rushes through the pines and hemlocks with great drama and sweep. A fog envelops the water and veils us from even the edge of the woods. Trying to read or write, I get distracted when a weather front comes through, or when the sunshine bursts out from behind a cloud lighting up the trees across the stream at sunset. In the suburbs or city, I'd never even notice that. Here I track the times of sunset and moonrise, checking out the sky many times each day to assess what is going on outside. Of course, we have to guage whether we can go hiking, boating or fishing based on the weather, that's certainly part of it. But I think being out here, away from dense clusters of dwellings, I'm drawn to consciously witness the weather here. Looking out the kitchen window at the shed during a sudden shower, I imagined what it would have been like 150 years ago, whether people in the Maine woods always had weather on their minds, or if they just took it as it came, without much comment. For me, up here, it's a constant source of wonder.