what if the weather forecast was perfect?

My sister Cathy lives in Oklahoma, where there is wind, hail, tornados... Where the weather is a member of the family. One too loud, too often present, and yet who shapes the character of life in a way that cannot be denied.

She said the forecasts are terrible... And the slick TV presenters never pay the price for being wrong over and over. Unlike the rest of us, who are damned three times in the best case of a good effort, and who rarely escape the mark of the lash for a perfect score.

I had a sudden thought. It was this: we live only because we cannot be forecasted.

Only in the crevices where calculus fails is there room for humanity to grow... Unnoticed by the too-intelligent. Invisible to the world-spanners who design perfection. Who make no room for a Santa. For a church or a wasted day kissing her under the lazy summer sun.

Thank God they cannot predict the weather. For if they could, the prices of each thing would be fixed, and fixed too high for life.

Chaos is our protector. What cannot be systemized must be ignored, and in this place is our reprieve.

Cathy thrills at the big and open sky of her country... Full of possibility. John Muir noted that the sheepherders of the Sierra Mountains ignored their names, calling them only "brakes," because of the trouble they gave. I'm kinda glad there are places where that way of looking at things runs into a bit of trouble.