Right sized

San Francisco has arguably some of the most consistent weather on the planet — roughly in the 60s most days, give or take a bit, with some wind. It rains for a few months in the winter, and then it's safe to assume no rain again until after Thanksgiving.

This consistency on nature's part can lead to hubris on SF denizens' end: we generally can plan whatever outdoor events we like knowing that if we have a fleece, we'll be just fine.

Not so in Montana. Here, the weather's entirely in charge.

And when it's nine degrees out, any fantasies of being in control of the world around me melt - or should I say deep freeze - away. Without heat, the temperature inside the house drops below freezing, a possibility I'd never even contemplated and was shocked to discover.

I feel vulnerable. I've even had dreams of Zoey wandering outside without her winter gear on and freezing to death. (How the neurosis of motherhood takes over even dream life.)

One of the things that inspired our move to Montana was the right-sizedness of the landscape. A person feels small out here encircled by jagged peaks, thousands of feet about sea level and hundreds of miles away from any major city. Good small, as in, 'wow, I'm a part of something much bigger than myself.' The enormous sky pulls its weight too, contributing to the sense of wonder.

I didn't expect that the weather would contribute to the heightened sense of my tender humanity. But it sure does.