Whatever happened to weather?

The happiest consequence of conversation is an obligation to explore. To talk we need a topic – with a frequent interlocutor, a new topic. Where to locate such unicorns? We look around. Possibilities abound – inquiries radiate from information like beams from a star. From a plethora of possibilities, we must choose one – relevant enough to engage, fresh enough to amuse. We want to brighten our friend’s moment, not blotch it with blather.

Modernity has proven the enemy of conversation. At a loss for a topic, we switch on a screen or insert an earbud. Minds unexercised grow flabby, like any muscle. We blame our boredom on circumstances, not our sloth, forgetting that the dullness of a scene is the fault of the seer. Any world is a wonderworld if you open your eyes.

Moments ago I was looking out my window wondering what we might jaw about today. The headlines filled me with ennui – enough already! Existential speculation felt intolerable this sunny morning. Dog-pal Henry had sounded off recently – plus, he wasn’t up for it. Friends think I make Henry talk, like a ventriloquist. Quite the contrary – I am his dummy.

Out my window there was… weather. There always is and it’s always different. Yet typically we dismiss it as a topic. Only dolts discuss weather – along with traffic, recipes, TV series, you know the drill. Two centuries ago, standing here, we’d have discussed weather more vigorously, having less traffic, fewer recipes, no TV. Our window would have been open – for the breeze – or closed against the chill (and no Thermopane!). We’d have gathered our dinner from garden or barnyard, which depend on the skies. Storm-clouds might have spelled trouble, as might their absence. We’d be spending more time outdoors – traveling, playing, working. For stadiums, no one had yet invented retractable rooves.

These days the weather tends to be a picture framed on my wall, more decorative than determinative. Jane and I set our thermostat to regulate temperature. Only a climate calamity could affect our plans. (A stiff wind might knock out our cable – and then what!) Almost everything that used to be done outdoors can now be accomplished within. (Last year we purchased a hateful stationary bike.) Food, grown in supermarkets, is preserved in freezers. Playoff games occur under cloches – I mean, domes. (I’m old enough to remember an epoch when “playoff games” were rare.) Of sports, maybe only golf and hiking remain weather-dependent.

Hurray for us – we’ve mastered the weather – mostly. But doesn’t every gain entail loss? Doesn’t Newton’s third law of motion apply equally to souls?

Whaddayaknow, a topic! Surprisingly proliferous, once my brain gets busy. A lot bigger than six hundred words. “In wilderness is the preservation of the world,” intoned my friend Thoreau. But we’re running out of wilderness – there’s less of it per person and we need it less. Does that mean we’re doomed?

Loss of weather coincides with enlargement of self-importance. In a wired world, humans are apt to mistake themselves as masters of their fate. Nature’s unruliness irritates. Ancient peoples treated weather as a god to placate; moderns treat it as a pest to exterminate. Is this progress?

Thoreau got it right, as he so often does, my favorite conversationalist. We need wilderness – to preserve ourselves – from self-importance. The weather gods remind us of our littleness, how we should walk carefully and gratefully beneath the skies. The dermatologist insults the sun god. How might the sun god wreak revenge?

Wow, weighty topic! But now the clock’s ticking to six hundred. Have a nice day. Don’t forget your hat.