|Beautiful Cloud Cover Above Ottawa|
Dreary DaysFor over ten years, one of my weekly clients sat down in my chair, and 85% of the time, complained about the weather -- we did, after all, live in Seattle. He had lived there all of his life, so chilly dampness was not new. But if it wasn't late July or August, those glorious days of which songs have been written, he was cranky.
I often wondered, and even asked a few times why he stayed. He didn't have an answer. He dreamed of retiring, like so many do, to the hot deserts of Arizona. He vacationed in the southwestern states and in arid eastern Washington. And yet he dug his uncomfortable webbed feet into Seattle's mossy ground. It was a choice, of course. His friends and family, his home and his routine took precedence over his hatred of the weather. But he never made peace with the drizzle. With the exception of those few weeks in summer, he subscribed to Murphy's Law: if it wasn't raining, it was bound to, once Saturday arrived.
Since I'm a glass-half-full person, I tried everything I could think of to show him an optional view. He would listen politely. He would chuckle kindly at my attempts to cajole him out of his gloomy funk over soggy boots and raincoats. We cracked up about many subjects over the years, but for my friend, the Pacific Northwest's climate was not, and could never be amusing or -- heaven forbid -- endearing.