once again, I am waiting for my world to warm.
it's dreary outside, sunlight baffled by rippling clouds that stripe the sky. blue is unveiled in narrow strips, but nothing today makes a shadow, not building nor tree nor jogger with white breath.
it will warm, they say. it's barely surpassed my threshold, and I'm promised another ten degrees before the high is met, and thus I wait. ten degrees is significant: it is toe-covers instead of full booties, it is thin gloves not fat, it is the fuchsia coat alone, without another on top.
but I fear my patience is ebbing, as I've already waited for hours. the desire to move is more powerful than the desire to be warm.
I can ride low, stay in the city instead of climbing a canyon: this will save me degrees, ice, snow, the rooster-tail up my back.
it will take from me some joy, and replace it with the frustration of cars and stoplights, but it will allow me to pedal away sooner.
I ache to leave. to put my body in motion, to out-pedal the discomfort of being unsettled, of wanting, of desire. budhhism suggests all temporary things and states are unsatisfying. that it is our desires that cause our suffering.
I desire warmth so that I may outpedal my other desires.
but perhaps I will honor the budhhist path and ride in discomfort, to embrace that which is given me.
it's climbed another 3 degrees, and I have plenty layers. my house is warm, I can heat water and wrap myself in blankets upon my return.
I could wait, or I could go.