I remember it distinctly: the first time I truly realized how powerless I am over the weather.
I was in my early twenties, the beginning of October had arrived, and with it exited the last smidgeons of summer. Like the White Walkers, clouds were coming. An overwhelming wave of sorrow and helplessness washed over me, from my head to my toes as I stared bleakly at the carpet and wondered, “Am I up to this?”
When I was in high school, the cartoon version of X-Men came out, and I immediately latched on to the character of Storm: her booming voice, her seemingly perfect posture, her ability to zap someone with a bolt of lightning. (Halle Berry did absolutely no justice in the first film – someone forgot to name it “X-Men: the Years of Angsty Adolescence.”) But maybe I should’ve watched more “Superman,” because boy howdy am I solar powered, although I’ve never received a tax credit.
I’m not Storm, but I have learned a few tricks to get through the sun-elusive months: a light box (also known as Mom’s Happy Light, a favorite gizmo to “Mom, let me help you with”), liquid Vitamin D (elixir of the emotionally-grounded gods), logic puzzles and spacial games (“I’m not addicted to Candy Crush Soda; I am taking care of my mental health!”).
And meditation, in which I come to recognize: this too shall pass. Summer shall return. With it’s bounty of sprinklers and enormous water bills and smaller laundry loads and flip flops *everywhere* and playdates and late nights and late mornings and sweaty darling little people with farmers tans and rosier cheeks. It’s futile to wish for something that can’t be – like changing or avoiding the seasons; but to be present in the moment of each season, well, that’s a practice – a superpower – in itself.