What About that Weather?

by Mary Keen, M.Div., LMFT

612.332.7743 ext. 220
mkeen@wpc-mpls.org

A common, almost mandatory topic of conversation in my family is the weather.

“How much snow you got?” “20 below here last night.” “Sounds like the spring floods will be record breaking this spring.”

The summer banter of questions, answers, and predictions sound similar but less ice-driven.

My family isn’t unique in this pattern. For us, it may be tied to the agrarian culture that permeated our family for generations, going back to Germany. Living on and working the land was our life blood. Weather is the farmer’s gambit. Weather makes, breaks, or devastates a living. So, we talk about the weather to honor our ancestors. Out of habit we warn, educate, or acknowledge our powerlessness in the upcoming storm or the promise of sunshine.

Weather is one common reality of every human being. What falls from the sky, what blows from the north, what seeps from the south, comes into our reality and then moves on, 20 miles away. In some way, weather grounds us in shared experiences. The precipitation, the sunshine, the fog, the flurries—all provide a common touch point, uniting us in our joys, complaints, and predictions. And about this bond, we converse.

Too often our weather talk is competitive. Crowing our experience is more amazing, more outlandish, more destructive than theirs. Perhaps our conversations could embody compassion, moving from “ain’t it awful” to “how can I help?” For in listening with compassion, we are brought to the core reason we are even talking about anything, that being connection.

Weather does not pass judgment. Its impact, positive or negative, is where you and I interact. The outside whims of temperature, wind and moisture influence our day to day moments. In these common experiences we are linked to a deeper level of humanity’s purpose, that of connection and compassion. Conversations that appear shallow are in truth, flooded with depth and longing.

“Snow there today?”

“How much?”

“Maybe two inches, may be two feet. Got a shovel?”