A Gray Day

It's one of those days: blustery and gray, not-normal-for-the-sunshine state type day.

The sun was out earlier. I was walking back to my office then, and someone was playing the bagpipes from the other side of the lake. Bless him or her or them! (This is the second time I've heard bagpipe music this month.) My coworker saw me turned toward the lake and said, "The highlanders are coming." There is no high land here for the highlanders to come from, but it's nice to imagine. And even easier to imagine now that the day has turned gray.

It's a peculiar thing the joy in melancholy, the celebration of a gray day. It's not a celebration of sadness nor a honoring of depression. I would avoid both. But there is a pleasure in punctuation--in the variety that comes from change.  I'm grateful for a gray day, fog and mist, and some bagpipe music across the lake.