In this deep inland fjord, it’s often the case that the sun that elsewhere (so I am told) rises in the East actually first shows itself in the west, as you can see here over Okanagan Lake at the new bar at the mouth of Vernon Creek.
When that happens, we live different days than those in which it shows itself over the Monashee Mountains down Coldstream Valley way, or those in which it arises in awareness from the lake itself, slowly thinning in the air until it is wholly present.
Reading the weather here is a matter of colour, which is a matter of air pressure, which is a matter of how much water has spilled over the mountains from the sea, at what speed, and in what currents.
You don’t need weather satellites for this. Eyes help. And breath.
And being present.
Together they form memory, which is something you feel on your skin, and your skin? Well, at that point, this becomes your skin:
The vertical pits are points of your attention. Call them thoughts, if you will, but do not call them metaphors, ideas, feelings, viewpoints or any other expression of individual will. That is a different story. You cannot read the weather from that one. From that one and all its artifice, you will need weather satellites and all the infrastructure that supports them, and, frustratingly, you will watch the world dwindle in response, in what is called “the human condition” but which might as well be called the ongoing suppression of indigenous cultures. You might ask yourself whether that is in your best interests. I have asked myself that, and know it isn’t.