![]() “We’re living in a terrarium.” Those were the first words I heard as I stumbled downstairs in the perpetually dark mid-morning gloom. Even my husband was beginning to feel the oppressiveness of the weather. We hadn’t seen the sun in weeks. Heavy rain had turned our yard into an Ichthus-like mud pit. The small lake abutting our property looked like the Mighty Ohio. I contemplated terracing my side yard into a working rice field. With stubborn, heavy clouds trapping the persistent rain, it did indeed feel like living in a glass-cased terrarium. The abundant moisture condensed, fell, partially evaporated, and condensed again. There seemed to be no escape from the cycle. We, fortunately, are not facing the critical, life-threatening flooding of other parts of Kentucky and the South. But my mood and my productivity have suffered during the most depressing winter I can remember. We’ve only had a handful of days where the overnight temperature dipped below freezing and the ground was even partially frozen. Walking the dog across the flooded fields in our neighborhood was, I imagined, like sloshing through a rice paddy. I wash piles of muddy dog towels every other day. The weatherman, however, says there is hope. Tomorrow, perhaps, for the first time since February 2, we may glimpse the sun. According to my running log, the last sun before that was on January 16. No wonder I’ve been suffering. With partial vision loss, my days start off dark. When there is no natural light, I fall into an abyss. A friend recently sent me an unfamiliar word I have now embraced: apricity. It means “the warmth of the winter sun.” Evidently the word was first introduced to our language in 1623, but it didn’t catch on. Today you won't find it in most dictionaries. But apricity is precisely what I’ve been craving for weeks. I’m almost giddy at the thought of it. The word also reminded me of a scene in Next Train Out. Effie Mae is living with her children and her brother in a godforsaken coal camp west of Middlesboro, Ky. One day when she’s out and about she sees an unfamiliar man who ends up playing a key role in her life: “It was late March, as I recall, and the sun had finally risen above the Cumberland Mountains. I found a spot in the sun’s warmth and just stood there, staring at the door he had entered. I don’t remember having no clear intentions. It was as if I was hypnotized by the warmth and the sight of a stranger.” A little sun warms our blood and renews our life force. It gives us hope. It softens our hard edges. It prompts us to act. It may not solve all our ills, but it might provide the energy we need to renew the fight.
6 Comments
Myra
2/13/2020 02:40:41 pm
I'm glad to hear that this gloomy weather is affecting someone else other than me, in the last few days I've been so depressed, but as they say" tomorrow is a new day" Also, our future for the U.S. keeps looking worse and worser.
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Barbara Fallis
2/14/2020 08:16:59 am
Fear not for spring is near. I've spotted a Piliated Woodpecker 4 days this week...looking for a mate perhaps? I'm just waiting for the Meadowlarks to start singing.
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2/16/2020 07:11:03 pm
OMG! S.A.D. is me. Saturday, I sat in a sunny window and read with the warmth of the sun's rays on my back. I felt renewed. And then I woke up this morning to another day of gloom. How much more can we take?
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Sallie Showalter
2/16/2020 10:24:45 pm
Ed, you took the words right out of my mouth. The forecast promises some sun later this week. Hang on!
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Bob
2/22/2020 07:50:12 pm
Hooray on you completion of the novel. Hope you did not select a tiny font. And will the typeface be sans-serif? I love that term. We have had a few sunny days since your post. I was told that I should not move to Oregon because e it rains all winter. Hmmm?
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Sallie Showalter
2/23/2020 04:17:20 pm
With the transitions we're seeing in our weather here in Kentucky, Oregon winters may not feel that different (not that I'm encouraging you to move, Bob!). A few years ago, Rick pronounced that we are living in the "Pacific Southeast." Nonsensical, perhaps, but eerily prophetic.
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