A letter to my friend, Andrew, who is thinking about moving to Portland, but worries about the weather

A friend of mine, let's call him Bob, was driving one evening when a drunk driver crashed headlong into his car. No one was injured, but Bob's car was totalled. He loved that car, but he need to replace it fast, because he was living in North Carolina, where it's illegal not to own a car. The replacement car he bought he did not love so much. It was not fun to drive. It was not fun to look at. One day, his wife turned to Bob, a practicing Buddhist, and said, "Don't you just hate that car?" Bob replied, "It helps me with my practice."

I thought of Bob's response as I rode my bike toward the river this afternoon on my way home. The day had started out gray, but by the time I left work, the clouds had parted and blue skies were peeking through. The water was placid and the light had that magical late-afternoon, winter-in-the-Northern-hemisphere quality that made everything look like a fairy tale filmed in high definition. The streets were wet from yesterday's rain, so it still felt like Portland, and I couldn't help feeling the light was all the sweeter for being reflected in the wet pavement.

"Why is it raining," The Boy will ask me sometimes, and I answer, "Because it's winter in Portland." Every morning I wake up, expecting rain, and when I look out the window to see that none is falling, it's like opening a present to find the perfect gift. If I lived somewhere else, would I call it a gift every time the sun forces its will on the sky, muscling its way through the clouds? Would summertime, with its endless dry days make me feel free like a kid again?

So move to Portland, Andrew. It will help you with your practice.