Five thirty.
It’s still black as ink out, but they tell us it’s snowing just now. By an association, I think of Shakespeare’s romances, and how I enjoyed The Winter’s Tale the last time I read it. I didn’t have very far to go in The Tempest lately: I ought to finish it today.
Eight ten.
Now you can see the weather. From a leaden sky the snow lightly drifts down, tiny particles not even flakes. It’s a bit above freezing. My trip to market can wait a while; maybe this stuff will clear somewhat. At least it’ll be warmer… Until this second I’d forgotten all about church at ten o clock. I wasn’t planning on going anyway, but I wonder how this weather will affect turnout for worship. I imagine that the show must go on, just like classes at the university. I feel a pang of regret that I don’t have church to go to, I guess because of the people. Still, church is not like school: no free thought is encouraged in the first. You have to take the pastor’s word for law and be led along by the nose no matter what he says. It isn’t a healthy intellectual climate for anyone. Debate is discouraged, and things are not an open forum.
Odd weather for the beginning of March…
robgradens 