What! No Complaints?

None. None whatsoever. What for? Without reason for complaint, there are none. All is perfection. At least as close to that state of mind and being as is possible. The weather is a transitory phenomenon. We cannot debase ourselves by claiming that as goes the weather so does our day, our thought processes, our comfort levels, our ability to cope, our happiness.

True, inclement weather can be a nuisance, but in the absence of catastrophic weather, it remains but aa nuisance that can be readily dealt with.

Unless we are so ill-balanced that our dependence on sunny skies and our abhorrence of dark horizons overtaking the brightness above renders us incapable of measuring our emotional responses. Yet psychologists speak of people adversely affected by episodic lack of sunlight, rendering them incapable of being mentally alert and functioning adequately, slowing down the thinking and the reaction processes.

As for us, I must admit it; we would prefer not to swelter in late summer heat.

So for us, personally, the unaccustomed cooler weather that July heralded in, accompanied by twice as much rain as July would normally surrender to, has been a welcome relief. We don't mind it one bit. It has not been totally unrelenting; between rain events, however torrential they've seemed, there has been the relapse into normalcy, with heat and bright sun enough for us. Selfish, I know. But we've no cause to fault Mother Nature.

Our gardens give us pleasure, rain or shine. They thrive, and so do we. Better rain than drought. Nothing stops us from enjoying the out-of-doors regardless of the weather. Through the course of any day there are opportunities to head outside, to make the most of brief let-ups in the rain. We are not languishing for want of opportunities to make the most of our days. We are busy with so many interests there is scarcely time to do everything.

This was a rare, rainless day. Sitting in our backyard, surrounded by the growing things that we love, the quiet atmosphere was suddenly punctured by the transcendentally sweet trill of a cardinal, sitting on the very tip of the tallest branch of an apple tree. The goldfinches that flew from branch to branch were silent; little winged lemons. They awaited the nuts sprinkled twice each day near the garden shed.

And we recognize our good fortune, and are grateful for it. We tell the gargoyle sitting watch on our porch that frowns are not in order, but the lolling, wickedly extended tongue is permissible, accompanied by that knowing eye-twinkle.