Disorientation

It is February, right? I hear tales from my sister, sister-in-law, and friends that contain mysterious phrases like "negative seven" and "wind chill factor," and I know that I once had some concept of their meaning. There was a time in my life when I even told such tales. But as I struggle to recall the sensations, the memories associated with them remain shrouded in the mists of "what was long ago," and I can't exactly bring them into focus. They are blurred at the edges of reality like a dream.

Yesterday, Darling Wife and I went hiking. We strolled through green pastures like the ones you see on the "California Happy Cows" commercials, climbed alongside a bubbling creek, and emerged atop a windswept hill covered with sage and scrub oak. The temperature was a pleasant 67 degrees Fahrenheit, and the scorching rays of the California sun brought the sweat out on both of us. It was lovely.

But I kept thinking that it was somehow unnatural. My mind asked, "Should it be this wonderfully springlike, almost summerlike, in early February?" And something from the depths of my soul answered, "Certainly not!" But it was; there could be no mistaking my senses. I know that were we to travel a short distance into the mountains, we would discover ourselves in the midst of freezing temperatures and several feet of snow. But that radical dichotomy merely reinforces the perception of strangeness.

After living here for two and a half years, I am no longer in tune with the chorus of winter wails I hear from my distant loved ones, but I am also certainly off beat with the rhythm here. Of course, I enjoyed the experience immensely... but I can't shake the eerie feeling that I am somehow off the edge of the map.