Outlook

A visual story—and two lists

Summer soon. With each season, I become better equipped to appreciate days with duality: The ones that begin gray and tired, then burst into something brighter. They throw us a wink as if that storm had never been there—but it was there. Sometimes there is no other way than in your direct path.

It’s sunny where I am right now. No chance of rain, though there’s always a chance of change. Disruption. I don’t need a forecast to tell me that. You probably don’t need me to tell you that, either. So, instead, two lists—and two dozen photos—prompted by weather, weariness, wonder, and the work of loving what’s offered to us daily.

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Outlook: Mostly Cloudy

From my journal: The need for nature. The nature to document. The documentation of a moment. The moment passing. The passing of a season. The season giving way to a story. The story making its way to you.

Cloudy days feel like dreams. Moving through liminal space—somewhere between light and dark—knowing both could be around the corner. Knowing nothing at all.

Go for a walk when you’re angry and feel your breath settle and your heart quicken at the sight of something beautiful—something outside of yourself.

Colors have more to say on an overcast day.

Mostly cloudy usually means mostly moist: dew drops on grass blades, the thick smell of rain, humidity then sweat, all of the water I’m not drinking but need to.

We spend a good amount of time in darkness—and keeping ourselves in the dark about things—what’s a little rain on top of that?

Remember that months-long stretch where every weekend forecast was gray and rainy, whereas the workweek was filled with sunshine? Remember how we took it personally? Remember how we didn’t know what to do about it except complain and wonder why? There may not have been a lot we could “do” during those days, but I think the fact that we remember these moments so vividly means something.

I’m the most honest version of myself on gray days. My exhaustion is more pronounced—heavy bags under my eyes, skin sallow—it can’t be hidden with sunlight.

Flat light inspires vertical focus.

A collective excuse to be quiet. To miss out on something. To miss someone.

From Nicolette Polek’s Bitter Water Opera: “Those were blissful days. I lived as if I was living permanently, in a place where I was only temporary.”

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Outlook: Mostly Sunny

I understand how to appreciate sunshine from indoors. I like knowing it’s right there: in the sky, in that patch on the floor. You can see it, too, just maybe not in the same way.

Ripples of light and heat pour in from all directions. For so long, there is nothing, and then suddenly, here is everything.

Wearing sunglasses is more than an aesthetic decision. There’s something about knowing other people can’t see the light in your eyes—the thoughts registering, tears welling, a subtle recognition of time passing.

Summer light reminds us of the long game: long days, shadows, luck, time.

That feeling when clouds part as you part ways with a version of you that exists only in this moment.

I like how sun is built into Sunday.

The sun’s rays are a friendly wave, a fist in the air, a hand to hold—reach out but don’t be afraid to let go.

Sometimes, summer is a sunburn on the soul. You can’t reach it, but it’s there. It hurts. It heals.

I’m watching everything grow, but what am I missing?

From Etel Adnan’s Shifting the Silence: “You know, sunsets are violently beautiful, I would say that they are so by definition, but there are lights, not even color in the habitual senses, lights elemental, mercurial, silvery, sulfurous, copper-made, that make us stop, these lose balance, make us open our arms not knowing else to do, arrest us if struck by lightning, a soft lightning, a welcome one. I wait for those lights, I know some of you do too…”