Weather Mood Quotes

I have come to the frightening conclusion that I am the decisive element. It is my personal approach that creates the climate. It is my daily mood that makes the weather. I possess tremendous power to make life miserable or joyous. I can be a tool of torture or an instrument of inspiration, I can humiliate or humor, hurt or heal. In all situations, it is my response that decides whether a crisis is escalated or de-escalated, and a person is humanized or de-humanized. If we treat people as they are, we make them worse. If we treat people as they ought to be, we help them become what they are capable of becoming.

I’ve come to a frightening conclusion that I am the decisive element in the classroom. It’s my personal approach that creates the climate. It’s my daily mood that makes the weather. As a teacher, I possess a tremendous power to make a child’s life miserable or joyous. I can be a tool of torture or an instrument of inspiration. I can humiliate or heal. In all situations, it is my response that decides whether a crisis will be escalated or de-escalated and a child humanized or dehumanized.

I won’t lie, it scares the dickens out of me to be outside when the lightning starts flashing its light-up-the-sky daggers,

When you lose someone you love, it’s hard to imagine that you’ll ever feel better. That, one day, you’ll manage to be in a good mood simply because the weather is nice or the barista at the coffee shop on the corner remembered your order. But it does happen. If you’re patient and you work at it.

The weather and my mood have little connection. I have my foggy and my fine days within me; my prosperity or misfortune has little to do with the matter.

The world you live in is imperfect. The weather is unsettled, the mood is changeable, relationships are unstable, jobs are insecure, the future is uncertain, and sometimes nothing seems to go your way. But life will always go on.

I’ve found that it’s of some help to think of one’s moods and feelings about the world as being similar to weather. Here are some obvious things about the weather: It's real. You can't change it by wishing it away. If it's dark and rainy, it really is dark and rainy, and you can't alter it. It might be dark and rainy for two weeks in a row. BUT it will be sunny one day. It isn't under one's control when the sun comes out, but come out it will. One day. It really is the same with one's moods, I think. The wrong approach is to believe that they are illusions. Depression, anxiety, listlessness - these are all are real as the weather - AND EQUALLY NOT UNDER ONE'S CONTROL. Not one's fault. BUT They will pass: really they will. In the same way that one really has to accept the weather, one has to accept how one feels about life sometimes, "Today is a really crap day," is a perfectly realistic approach. It's all about finding a kind of mental umbrella. "Hey-ho, it's raining inside; it isn't my fault and there's nothing I can do about it, but sit it out. But the sun may well come out tomorrow, and when it does I shall take full advantage.

My mother always said that I was born out of a bottle of vinegar instead of born from a womb and that she and my father bathed me in sugar for three days to wash it off. I try to behave, but I always go back to the vinegar." When Dad was in one of his rare, fanciful moods, he told guests that the pixies left me on the doorstep because I bit their fingers too often. My favorite was always when Mum said that before I was born, it rained for seven days and seven nights solid, and when she went out into the yard to ask the sky what it was weeping for, I dropped out of the clouds at her feet and the sun came out. I always liked the idea of being such a bother that I affected even the weather.

Your face says so much in so little time, you let everything you're thinking bloom upon your face, and I can't think of anything else I'd rather watch than you pass through five moods in five minutes. What glorious weather.

Emma rose to her feet, facing the faerie across the fleeing crowd. Gleaming from his weathered, barklike face, his eyes were yellow as a cat's. "Shadowhunter," he hissed. Emma reached back over her shoulder and closed her hand around the hilt of her sword, Cortana. The blade made a golden blur in the air as she drew it and pointed the tip at the fey. "No," she said. "I'm a candygram. This is my costume." The faerie looked puzzled. Emma sighed. "It's so hard to be sassy to the Fair Folk. You people never get jokes." "We are well known for our jests, japes, and ballads," the faerie said, clearly offended. "Some of our ballads last for weeks." "I don't have that kind of time," Emma said. "I'm a Shadowhunter. Quip fast, die young." She wiggled Cortana's tip impatiently. "Now turn out your pockets." "I have done nothing to break the Cold Peace," said the fey. "Technically true, but we do frown on stealing from mundanes," Emma said. "Turn out your pockets or I'll rip off one of your horns and shove it where the sun doesn't shine." The fey looked puzzled. "Where does the sun not shine? Is this a riddle?" Emma gave a martyred sigh and raised Cortana. "Turn them out, or I'll start peeling your bark off. My boyfriend and I just broke up, and I'm not in the best mood." The faerie began slowly to empty his pockets onto the ground, glaring at her all the while. "So you're single," he said. "I never would have guessed.

I loved weather, all weather, not just the good kind. I loved balmy days, fearsome storms, blizzards, and spring showers. And the colors! Everyday brought something to be admired: the soft feathery patterns of cirrus clouds, the deep, dark grays of thunderheads, the lacy gold and peach of the early morning sunrise. The sky and its moods called to me.

I am very close to HIM, sometimes I think I am HIM, with my mood is the weather,bright and sunny forever.

It is my mood which decides the weather, it is my mood which brings the tiny changes to humankind.

It’s important to try to write when you are in the wrong mood or when the weather is wrong.

Imagine having a mood system that functions essentially like weather—independently of whatever’s going on in your life.

In this imperfect world, we face unpredictable weather conditions, fluctuating moods, fragile relationships, uncertain job prospects, and an unknown future. There are moments when it may feel like nothing is going our way. Yet, we must never lose sight of hope, for life will always go on.

When you lose someone you love, it's hard to imagine that you'll ever feel better. That, one day, you'll manage to be in a good mood simply because the weather is nice or the barista at the coffee shop on the corner remembered your order. But it does happen. If you're patient and you work at it.

Whatever their degree of self-control, these parents are governed by emotion, seeing the world in black-and-white terms, keeping score, holding grudges, and controlling others with emotional tactics. Their fluctuating moods and reactivity make them unreliable and intimidating. And while they may act helpless and usually see themselves as victims, family life always revolves around their moods. Although they often control themselves outside the family, where they can follow a structured role, within the crucible of intimate family relationships they display their full impulsivity, especially if intoxicated. It can be shocking to see how no-holds-barred they can get. Many children of such parents learn to subjugate themselves to other people’s wishes (Young and Klosko 1993). Because they grew up anticipating their parent’s stormy emotional weather, they can be overly attentive to other people’s feelings and moods, often to their own detriment.

People are so ready to think themselves changed when it is only their mood that is changed. Those who are good-tempered because it is a fine day will be ill-tempered when it rains: their selves are just the same both days; only in one case the fine weather has got into them, in the other the rainy.

I am a woman whose moods are influenced by the weather, my outlook rising and falling with the barometer.

... the delicacy, the impermanence, the emptiness of mind states. Just like the weather, they blow in and out. Good mood. Bad mood. Tranquil mood. Frazzled mood [p. 105].

The weather and my mood have little connection. I have my foggy and my fine days within me.

It's not the weather that's bad or good, it's whether you have good or bad mood. It's cloudy and cold, I feel happy and bold, As the storm unfolds, I turn silver in gold!

I know she absolutely delights in the improvement of the weather, in the turning of the year.

There was no control except the "mood of his power... and it is for this reason it is good you never heard him play someplace where the weather for instance could change the next series of notes-- then you should never have heard him at all. He was never recorded. He stayed away while others moved into wax history, electronic history, those who said later that Boldon broke the path. It was just as important to watch him stretch and wheel around the last notes or to watch nerves jumping under the sweat of his head.

Unless you’re fond of hollering you don’t make great conversations on a running cycle. Instead you spend your time being aware of things and meditating on them. On sights and sounds, on the mood of the weather and things remembered, on the machine and the countryside you’re in, thinking about things at great leisure and length without being hurried and without feeling you’re losing time.

They cross the Channel at midnight. There are twelve and they are named for songs: Stardust and Stormy Weather and In the Mood and Pistol-Packin’ Mama. The sea glides along far below, spattered with the countless chevrons of whitecaps. Soon enough, the navigators can discern the low moonlit lumps of islands ranged along the horizon.

When I first thought about writing this book, I conceived of it as a book about moods, and an illness of moods, in the context of an individual life. As I have written it, however, it has somehow turned out to be very much a book about love as well: love as sustainer, as renewer, and as protector. After each seeming death within my mind or heart, love has returned to recreate hope and restore life. It has, at its best, made the inherent sadness of life bearable, and its beauty manifest. It has, inexplicably and savingly, provided not only cloak but lantern for the darker seasons and grimmer weather.

And so the German spirit, carousing in music, in wonderful creations of sound, and wonderful beauties of feeling and mood that were never pressed home to reality, has left the greater part of its gifts to decay. None of us intellectuals is at home in reality. We are strange to it and hostile. Assiduous and busy, care-ridden and light-hearted, intelligent and yet thoughtless, these butterflies lived a life at once childlike and raffiné; independent, not to be bought by every one, finding their account in good luck and fine weather, in love with life and yet clinging to it far less than the bourgeois, always ready to follow a fairy prince to his castle, always certain, though scarcely conscious of it, that a difficult and sad end was in store for them.

Many children of such parents learn to subjugate themselves to other people’s wishes (Young and Klosko 1993). Because they grew up anticipating their parent’s stormy emotional weather, they can be overly attentive to other people’s feelings and moods, often to their own detriment.

Gloomy days, whether meteorological or psychological, lend themselves more to the creation of Gothic horror. On those insular days, the mind gravitates towards the unseen and the subconscious. Days of blinding sunshine banish the desire to ruminate and it is replaced with a longing to participate in the outside world.

Don’t Analyze Your Woman The feminine’s moods and opinions are like weather patterns. They are constantly changing, severe and gentle, and they have no single source. No analysis will work. There is no linear chain of cause and effect that can lead to the kernel of the “problem.” There is no problem, only a storm, a breeze, a sudden change in weather. And the bases of these storms are the high and low pressure systems of love. When a woman feels love flowing deeply, her mood can instantly evaporate into joy, regardless of the supposed reason for the mood.

And I thought about how life was like the weather, it could change, and how Dante had moods that were pure as a blue sky and sometimes they were dark like a storm and that maybe, in some ways, he was just like me, and maybe that wasn’t such a good thing - but maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing either. People were complicated. I was complicated. Dante, he was complicated, too. People - they were included in the mysteries of the universe. What mattered is that he was an original. That he was beautiful and human and real and I loved him - and I didn’t think anything would ever change that.

I had apologized for long traffic lights, for changes in the weather, and most especially for other people’s mistakes and bad moods.

It's hard to accept that life always marches forward, isn't it? Always forward, never back. I was forced to change when my life suddenly changed around me, but even if it hadn't, I'd have changed in one way or another sooner enough, wouldn't I? Because people do, don't they, no one stays the same forever. Everything is just so fragile, isn't it? We make our decisions dependent on the day, the weather, our mood, the phases of the moon, what we had for breakfast

He has always had a dread of crossing borders, he doesn't like to leave what's known and safe for the blank space beyond in which anything can happen. Everything at times of transition takes on a symbolic weight and power. But this too is why he travels. The world you're moving through flows into another one inside, nothing stays divided any more, this stands for that, weather for mood, landscape for feeling, for every object there is a corresponding inner gesture, everything turns into metaphor. The border line on a map, but also drawn inside himself somewhere.

Hannah is missing school because one night, her father exiled her and her mother and Allison from the house. This was, obviously, somewhat insane. But it wasn't more insane or cruel than other things he's done, which is not to say he's insane or cruel all the time. He's himself; he can be perfectly pleasant; he's the weather system they live with , and all the behavior, whenever he is around, hinges on his mood. Don't the three of them understand that living with him simply is what it is? To complain or resist would be as useless as complaining about or resisting a tornado.

The conference is geared to people who enjoy meaningful discussions and sometimes "move a conversation to a deeper level, only to find out we are the only ones there." . . . When it's my turn, I talk about how I've never been in a group environment in which I didn't feel obliged to present an unnaturally rah-rah version of myself. . . . Scientists can easily report on the behavior of extroverts, who can often be found laughing, talking, or gesticulating. But "if a person is standing in the corner of a room, you can attribute about fifteen motivations to that person. But you don't really know what's going on inside." . . . So what is the inner behavior of people whose most visible feature is that when you take them to a party they aren't very pleased about it? . . . The highly sensitive tend to be philosophical or spiritual in their orientation, rather than materialistic or hedonistic. They dislike small talk. They often describe themselves as creative or intuitive . . . . They dream vividly, and can often recall their dreams the next day. They love music, nature, art, physical beauty. They feel exceptionally strong emotions--sometimes acute bouts of joy, but also sorrow, melancholy, and fear. Highly sensitive people also process information about their environments--both physical and emotional--unusually deeply. They tend to notice subtleties that others miss--another person's shift in mood, say, or a lightbulb burning a touch too brightly. . . . [Inside fMRI machines], the sensitive people were processing the photos at a more elaborate level than their peers . . . . It may also help explain why they're so bored by small talk. "If you're thinking in more complicated ways," she told me, "then talking about the weather or where you went for the holidays is not quite as interesting as talking about values or morality." The other thing Aron found about sensitive people is that sometimes they're highly empathic. It's as if they have thinner boundaries separating them from other people's emotions and from the tragedies and cruelties of the world. They tend to have unusually strong consciences. They avoid violent movies and TV shows; they're acutely aware of the consequences of a lapse in their own behavior. In social settings they often focus on subjects like personal problems, which others consider "too heavy.

The place settings at the tables did not, not, not include little cups of those almonds in hard-candy shells that are usually provided at wedding receptions, the absence of which contributed to everyone’s good mood.

Let me make a clean breast of it here, and frankly admit that I kept but sorry guard. With the problem of the universe revolving in me, how could I- being left completely to myself at such a thought-engendering altitude- how could I but lightly hold my obligations to observe all whaleships' standing orders, "Keep your weather eye open, and sing out every time." And let me in this place movingly admonish you, ye ship-owners of Nantucket! Beware of enlisting in your vigilant fisheries any lad with lean brow and hollow eye; given to unseasonable meditativeness...: your whales must be seen before they can be killed; and this sunken-eyed young Platonist will tow you ten wakes round the world, and never make you one pint of sperm the richer. Nor are these monitions at all unneeded. For nowadays, the whale-fishery furnishes an asylum for many romantic, melancholy, and absent-minded young men, disgusted with the corking care of earth, and seeking sentiment in tar and blubber. Childe Harold not unfrequently perches himself upon the mast-head of some luckless disappointed whale-ship, and in moody phrase ejaculates:- "Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll! Ten thousand blubber-hunters sweep over thee in vain. " ... "Why, thou monkey," said a harpooneer to one of these lads, "we've been cruising now hard upon three years, and thou hast not raised a whale yet. Whales are scarce as hen's teeth whenever thou art up here." Perhaps they were; or perhaps there might have been shoals of them in the far horizon; but lulled into such an opium-like listlessness of vacant, unconscious reverie is this absent-minded youth by the blending cadence of waves with thoughts, that at last he loses his identity; takes the mystic ocean at his feet for the visible image of that deep, blue, bottomless soul, pervading mankind and nature; and every strange, half-seen, gliding, beautiful thing that eludes him; every dimly-discovered, uprising fin of some undiscernible form, seems to him the embodiment of those elusive thoughts that only people the soul by continually flitting through it. In this enchanted mood, thy spirit ebbs away to whence it came; becomes diffused through time and space; like Crammer's sprinkled Pantheistic ashes, forming at last a part of every shore the round globe over. There is no life in thee, now, except that rocking life imparted by a gentle rolling ship; by her, borrowed from the sea; by the sea, from the inscrutable tides of God. But while this sleep, this dream is on ye, move your foot or hand an inch; slip your hold at all; and your identity comes back in horror. Over Descartian vortices you hover. And perhaps, at midday, in the fairest weather, with one half-throttled shriek you drop through that transparent air into the summer sea, no more to rise for ever. Heed it well, ye Pantheists!

If I were making up a story, I would have it gray and miserable outside, but it was sunny and miserable instead, glaringly bright and bitterly cold, as if the sky could not decide if it was in a good mood or would spend all day growling. I didn’t mind this kind of weather, weather that cannot make up its mind, because I am often the same way, or at least I think I am. I don’t know.

To me, it seems unspeakably shabby to make a fuss over charity. You're walking along the street one day, the weather is so and so and you see such and such people, all of which builds up a certain mood in you. Suddenly you catch sight of a face, a child's face, a beggar's face----let's say a beggar's face---which makes you tremble. A strange sensation vibrates through your soul, and you stamp your foot and come to a halt. This face has struck an exceptionally sensitive chord in you, and you lure the beggar into an entranceway and press a ten-krone bill into his hand. If you give me away by as much as a world, I'll kill you! you whisper, and you fairly grind your teeth and shed tears of anger saying it. That's how important it is to you to remain undiscovered. And this can happen repeatedly, day after day, so that often you end up in the worst kind of scrape yourself, without a penny in your pocket...

It’s because it’s much easier to search for a reason not to try than for a reason ​to try.  Everyone had to have experienced that at some point. Studying or dieting; it didn’t matter. It’s the weather, it’s the temperature, it’s the mood; anything could pass as  an excuse to skip. 

Heade’s calm is unsteady, storm-stirred; we respond in our era to its hint of the nervous and the fearful. His weather is interior weather, in a sense, and he perhaps was, if far from the first to portray a modern mood, an ambivalent mood tinged with dread and yet imbued with a certain lightness.The mood could even be said to be religious: not an aggressive preachment of God’s grandeur but a kind of Zen poise and acceptance, represented by the small sedentary or plodding foreground figures that appear uncannily at peace as the clouds blacken and the lightning flashes.

Even as a boy Jack had loved the smell of the ground softening in the thaw and coming back to life. Not this spring. A damp, moldy dreariness, something like loneliness, had settled over the homestead. At first Jack did not know its source. Maybe it was only his own mood. Perhaps it was the spring weather, with overcast skies and freezing rain that soaked through the cabin walls. Mabel, too, seemed beset by a morose restlessness.

He thought Emily Dickinson was perhaps the best writer America had ever produced; but on this day, heading east out of the Cities, then south down the river, he thought of how some of the writers, Poe and Hemingway in particular, used the weather to create the mood and reflect the meanings of their stories.

If I wished to see a mountain or other scenery under the most favorable auspices, I would go to it in foul weather, so as to be there when it cleared up; we are then in the most suitable mood, and nature is most fresh and inspiring. There is no serenity so fair as that which is just established in a tearful eye.

You may have control of your life, but you cannot control your environment. You cannot control the economy, trends, family circumstances, accidents, unexpected expenses, and the weather of life. You cannot control other people and their moods, personal situations, or issues. You cannot control biases or changes in your industry of choice. You cannot even control jealousy and envy in others. However, you can control your own STRENGTH to get back up and START AGAIN. Destiny is manifested only through action. You cannot be the captain of your own destiny, only the sailor, because we cannot control external influences that may alter the stability or direction of our ships. Once you understand this basic principle, you won't be so hard on yourself when things don't go your way. If man could write his own fate, he would have designed his journey to be without obstacles. Yet all obstacles come with valuable lessons designed just for you and only you. Suffering is imposed on us time and again so that one day we would become brave wise masters. Faith keeps our ships moving, while empathy and the memories of our experiences lead to wisdom.

We live in the same world, but we experience different moods and weather conditions.

It’s a popular belief in Sakhalin that a pretty woman’s mood changes as fast as the weather on the island.

My mood is as flat and gray as the weather. My days are blending together with no distinction, and I need some kind of diversion. (Grey)

It was very cold that afternoon, whipping wind, and the city seemed to mirror my mood, which was gray and bleak.

Pay attention and you will see - absolute pathetic fallacy is a gift, too.

Thankfully the rain had softened to a light drizzle, but the murky gray of the sky painted a dreary mausoleum atmosphere.

And how deeply, the passing moods of weather affected our own.

Meteorologists seem to be better at forecasting the weather (at least in the short term) than we are at forecasting our own mood in the future.

Weather is a kind of Rorschach test. We see in it what we need to see, or what we feel is missing from our lives.

I’ve come to the frightening conclusion that I am the decisive element in the classroom. It’s my daily mood that makes the weather. —

Are you bipolar?’ and I swear this wasn’t a joke, seeing as it would make a bit of sense, considering his mood seemed to change like the British weather.

Nevertheless, ere long, the warm, warbling persuasiveness of the pleasant, holiday weather we came to, seemed gradually to charm him from his mood. For, as when the red-cheeked, dancing girls, April and May, trip home to the wintry, misanthropic woods; even the barest, ruggedest, most thunder-cloven old oak will at least send forth some few green sprouts, to welcome such gladhearted visitants; so Ahab did, in the end, a little respond to the playful allurings of that girlish air. More than once did he put forth the faint blossom of a look, which, in any other man, would have soon flowered out in a smile.

Now Faith, in the sense in which I am here using the word, is the art of holding on to things your reason has once accepted, in spite of your changing moods. For moods will change, whatever view your reason takes. I know that by experience. Now that I am a Christian I do have moods in which the whole thing looks very improbable: but when I was an atheist I had moods in which Christianity looked terribly probable. This rebellion of your moods against your real self is going to come anyway. That is why Faith is such a necessary virtue: unless you teach your moods ‘where they get off’, you can never be either a sound Christian or even a sound atheist, but just a creature dithering to and fro, with its beliefs really dependent on the weather and the state of its digestion. Consequently one must train the habit of Faith. The

In Warsaw, you also remember that you are in a Communist-controlled country, though by all accounts the control is now humane and lenient, judged by what it was and what it is in other satellite countries. Still you do hear the incompetent echo in the tapped hotel telephone, you do notice that people look over their shoulders when talking in restaurants - the secret police are dormant but not forgotten; you feel in your bones, as you would a threatening change in the weather, every change in Russian mood or action. This is not and air we have ever breathed; I doubt if we would be strong enough to resist such a climate and stay as healthy in spirit as the Poles.

Realizing that both this Sunday and the fine weather that had accompanied it had drawn to a close, a certain mood came over him: a sense that such things did not last for long, and that this was a great pity. From tomorrow he would again, as always, be busy at work -- the thought brought on pangs of regret for the good life he had tasted for this one afternoon. The mindless activity that filled the other six days of the week seemed utterly dreary.

But imagine this though. Imagine having a mood system that functions essentially like weather - independently of whatever's going on in your life. So the facts of your life remain the same, just the emotional fiction that you're responding to differs. It's like I'm not properly insulated - so all the bad and the good ways that you and most of the people in adjacent neighborhoods and around the world feel - that pours directly into my system unchecked. It's so fun.

When you lose someone you love, it’s hard to imagine that you’ll ever feel better. That, one day, you’ll manage to be in a good mood simply because the weather is nice or the barista at the coffee shop on the corner remembered your order.

When you lose someone you love, it's hard to imagine that you'll ever feel better. That, one day, you'll manage to be in a good mood simply because the weather is nice or the barista at the coffee shop on the corner remembered your order.

You may have control of your life, but you cannot control your environment. You cannot control the economy, trends, family circumstances, accidents, unexpected expenses, and the weather of life. You cannot control other people and their moods, personal situations, or issues. You cannot control biases or changes in your industry of choice. You cannot control jealousy and envy in others. Unfortunately you cannot control everything. However, you can control your own STRENGTH to get back up and START AGAIN.

It was a music that had so little wisdom you wanted to clean nearly every note he passed, passed it seemed along the way as if travelling in a car, passed before he even approached it and saw it properly. There was no control except the mood of his power … and it is for this reason it is good you never heard him play on recordings. If you never heard him play some place where the weather for instance could change the next series of notes—then you should never have heard him at all. He was never recorded.

When you lose someone you love, it’s hard to imagine that you’ll ever feel better. That, one day, you’ll manage to be in a good mood simply because the weather is nice or the barista at the coffee shop on the corner remembered your order. But it does happen.

…For many years now, that way of living has been scorned, and over the last 40 or 50 years it has nearly disappeared. Even so, there was nothing wrong with it. It was an economy directly founded on the land, on the power of the sun, on thrift and skill and on the people’s competence to take care of themselves. They had become dependent to some extent on manufactured goods, but as long as they stayed on their farms and made use of the great knowledge that they possessed, they could have survived foreseeable calamities that their less resourceful descendants could not survive. Now that we have come to the end of the era of cheap petroleum which fostered so great a forgetfulness, I see that we could have continued that thrifty old life fairly comfortably – could even have improved it. Now, we will have to return to it, or to a life necessarily as careful, and we will do so only uncomfortably and with much distress. Increasingly over the last maybe forty years, the thought has come to me that the old world, in which our people lived by the work of their hands, close to weather and earth, plants and animals, was the true world. And that the new world of cheap energy and ever cheaper money, honored greed and dreams of liberation from every restraint, is mostly theater. This new world seems a jumble of scenery and props never quite believable. An economy of fantasies and moods, in which it is hard to remember either the timely world of nature, or the eternal world of the prophets and poets. And I fear, I believe I know, that the doom of the older world I knew as a boy will finally afflict the new one that replaced it. The world I knew as a boy was flawed surely, but it was substantial and authentic. The households of my grandparents seemed to breathe forth a sense of the real cost and worth of things. Whatever came, came by somebody’s work.

Everything that flows moves in rhythm with the moon. She rules the water element on Earth. She pulls the ocean’s tides, the weather, female reproductive cycles and the life fluids of plants, animals and people. She influences the mood swings of mind, body, behavior and emotion. WeMoon Diary

When you lose someone you love, it's hard to imagine that you'll ever feel better. That, one day, you'll manage to be in a good mood simply because the weather is nice or the barista at the coffee shop on the corner remembered your order. But it does happen. If you're patient and you work at it

People are so ready to think themselves change when it is only their mood that is changed! Those who are good-tempered because it is a fine day, will be ill-tempered when it rains: their selves are just the same both days; only in one case , the fine weather has got them, in the other the rainy.

When you lose someone you love, it’s hard to imagine that you’ll ever feel better. That, one day, you’ll manage to be in a good mood simply because the weather is nice or the barista at the coffee shop on the corner remembered your order. But it does happen. If you’re patient and you work at it.

We are never encouraged to experience the ebb and flow of our moods, of our health, of the weather, of outer events—pleasant and unpleasant—in their fullness. Instead we stay caught in a fearful, narrow holding pattern of avoiding any pain and continually seeking comfort. This is the universal dilemma.

It is my personal approach that creates the climate. It is my daily mood that makes the weather…I possess a tremendous power to make a child’s life miserable or joyous. I can be a tool of torture or an instrument of inspiration. I can humiliate or humor, hurt or heal. In all situations, it is my response that decides whether a crisis will be escalated or de-escalated and a child humanized or dehumanized.

IN BERLIN ON SATURDAY MORNING, Joseph Goebbels focused his regular propaganda meeting on how best to take advantage of what he believed must certainly be a rising sense of dread among England’s civilian population. “The important thing now,” he told the gathering, “is to intensify as far as possible the mood of panic which is undoubtedly slowly gaining ground in Britain.” Germany’s secret transmitters and foreign-language service were to continue describing the “frightful effects” of air raids. “The secret transmitters, in particular, should marshal witnesses who must give horrifying accounts of the destruction they have seen with their own eyes.” This effort, he instructed, should also include transmissions warning listeners that fog and mist would not protect them from aerial attack; bad weather merely confused the aim of German bombers and made it more likely that bombs would fall on unintended targets.

I raised the hood of my cape and opened my umbrella. Headmistress had given it to me for my twenty-first birthday, knowing how fond I was of the purple foxglove that bloomed in the park. When open, the underside revealed in each of the panels a spray of painted stems, lush with lavender bells. "No matter how bad the weather, you will always be able to look up and see something that will cheer you," she had said, knowing that my quiet moods often concealed an orphan's melancholy.

Speaking of Occasion Noise “Judgment is like a free throw: however hard we try to repeat it precisely, it is never exactly identical.” “Your judgment depends on what mood you are in, what cases you have just discussed, and even what the weather is. You are not the same person at all times.” “Although you may not be the same person you were last week, you are less different from the ‘you’ of last week than you are from someone else today. Occasion noise is not the largest source of system noise.

Not so fast,” Sully said. The entire station went quiet as everyone turned toward him. “Lindsey Norris, I like you, too. I like that you’re smart and funny and can remember what everyone in town likes to read. I like that you ride a ridiculous bike to work in terrible weather, and I like that your eyes change color with your moods, like the sea reflects the sky. I like that you adopted a puppy who needed you, and I like the way the wind tangles up your hair when you let it loose, and I do like it loose.” Lindsey

Why, thou monkey,’ said a harpooneer to one of these lads, ‘we ’ve been cruising now hard upon three years, and thou hast not raised a whale yet. Whales are scarce as hen’s teeth whenever thou art up here.’ Perhaps they were; or perhaps there might have been shoals of them in the far horizon; but lulled into such an opium-like listlessness of vacant, unconscious revery is this absent-minded youth by the blending cadence of waves with thoughts, that at last he loses his identity; takes the mystic ocean at his feet for the visible image of that deep, blue, bottomless soul, pervading mankind and nature; and every strange, half-seen, gliding, beautiful thing that eludes him; every dimly-discovered, uprising fin of some undiscernible form, seems to him the embodiment of those elusive thoughts that only people the soul by continually flitting through it. In this enchanted mood, thy spirit ebbs away to whence it came; becomes diffused through time and space; like Cranmer’s sprinkled Pantheistic ashes, forming at last a part of every shore the round globe over. 10 There is no life in thee, now, except that rocking life imparted by a gently rolling ship; by her, borrowed from the sea; by the sea, from the inscrutable tides of God. But while this sleep, this dream is on ye, move your foot or hand an inch; slip your hold at all; and your identity comes back in horror. Over Descartian vortices you hover. And perhaps, at mid-day, in the fairest weather, with one half-throttled shriek you drop through that transparent air into the summer sea, no more to rise forever. Heed it well, ye Pantheists!

Increasingly over the last maybe forty years, the thought has come to me that the old world in which our people lived by the work of their hands, close to weather and earth, plants and animals, was the true world; and that the new world of cheap energy and ever cheaper money, honored greed, and dreams of liberation from every restraint, is mostly theater. This new world seems a jumble of scenery and props never quite believable, an economy of fantasies and moods, in which it is hard to remember either the timely world of nature or the eternal world of the prophets and poets." -Wendell Berry, Andy Catlett Early Travels, p. 93

Creating the Weather in the Classroom As Haim Ginott suggests, teachers “create the weather” in the classroom:   I have come to the frightening conclusion that I am the decisive element in the classroom. It is my personal approach that creates the climate. It’s my daily mood that makes the weather. As a teacher, I possess a tremendous power to make a child’s life miserable or joyous. I can be a tool of torture, or an instrument of inspiration. I can humiliate, or humor, hurt or heal. In all situations, it is my response that decides whether a crisis will be escalated or de-escalated and a child is humanized or dehumanized [p. x].

What will you do if you win the Scorpio Races?” I look into the bucket. “Oh, I’ll buy fourteen dresses and build a road and name it after myself and try one of everything at Palsson’s.” Though I don’t quite look up, I can still feel his gaze on me. It’s a heavy thing, this look of his. He says, “What’s the real answer?” But when I try to think of a real answer, it reminds me of Father Mooneyham saying that Gabe had sat in the confessional and cried, and it makes me think of how, no matter what happens in the races, the best option still has Gabe sailing away in a boat. So I snap, “Do you think I just turn my secrets out for everyone?” He is unfazed. “I didn’t know they were secrets,” he says. “Or I wouldn’t have asked.” It makes me feel ungenerous, since he’d answered so honestly. “I’m sorry,” I say. “My mother always said that I was born out of a bottle of vinegar instead of born from a womb and that she and my father bathed me in sugar for three days to wash it off. I try to behave, but I always go back to the vinegar.” When Dad was in one of his rare, fanciful moods, he told guests that the pixies left me on the doorstep because I bit their fingers too often. My favorite was always when Mum said that before I was born, it rained for seven days and seven nights solid, and when she went out into the yard to ask the sky what it was weeping for, I dropped out of the clouds at her feet and the sun came out. I always liked the idea of being such a bother that I affected even the weather. Sean says, “Don’t apologize. I was being too free.” And now I feel even worse, because that wasn’t what I meant at all.

It is a lovely strath. The flat river lands widen and narrow, the path goes by and through hazel woods where nuts ripen in harvest weather, discloses sudden meadows where rabbits look and vanish, swerves round and on, but ever holds by the river. The slopes that shut out the strath from the moors are steep and wooded to their summits. It is not a glen of the mountains, craggy, stupendous, physically impressive. There is nothing here to overwhelm the romantic mind. Its beauty is an inward grace in oneself akin to what is indefinable in the memory of a masterpiece. Beauty, intimate and secretive, has a lingering, lovely mirth; at the core of it, hope and fulfilment meet and tread a measure; while heads turn with glistening eyes to look for any or no excuse to laugh. In some such mood the Creator must have looked upon his handiwork and called it good.

Necessities 1 A map of the world. Not the one in the atlas, but the one in our heads, the one we keep coloring in. With the blue thread of the river by which we grew up. The green smear of the woods we first made love in. The yellow city we thought was our future. The red highways not traveled, the green ones with their missed exits, the black side roads which took us where we had not meant to go. The high peaks, recorded by relatives, though we prefer certain unmarked elevations, the private alps no one knows we have climbed. The careful boundaries we draw and erase. And always, around the edges, the opaque wash of blue, concealing the drop-off they have stepped into before us, singly, mapless, not looking back. 2 The illusion of progress. Imagine our lives without it: tape measures rolled back, yardsticks chopped off. Wheels turning but going nowhere. Paintings flat, with no vanishing point. The plots of all novels circular; page numbers reversing themselves past the middle. The mountaintop no longer a goal, merely the point between ascent and descent. All streets looping back on themselves; life as a beckoning road an absurd idea. Our children refusing to grow out of their childhoods; the years refusing to drag themselves toward the new century. And hope, the puppy that bounds ahead, no longer a household animal. 3 Answers to questions, an endless supply. New ones that startle, old ones that reassure us. All of them wrong perhaps, but for the moment solutions, like kisses or surgery. Rising inflections countered by level voices, words beginning with w hushed by declarative sentences. The small, bold sphere of the period chasing after the hook, the doubter that walks on water and treads air and refuses to go away. 4 Evidence that we matter. The crash of the plane which, at the last moment, we did not take. The involuntary turn of the head, which caused the bullet to miss us. The obscene caller who wakes us at midnight to the smell of gas. The moon's full blessing when we fell in love, its black mood when it was all over. Confirm us, we say to the world, with your weather, your gifts, your warnings, your ringing telephones, your long, bleak silences. 5 Even now, the old things first things, which taught us language. Things of day and of night. Irrational lightning, fickle clouds, the incorruptible moon. Fire as revolution, grass as the heir to all revolutions. Snow as the alphabet of the dead, subtle, undeciphered. The river as what we wish it to be. Trees in their humanness, animals in their otherness. Summits. Chasms. Clearings. And stars, which gave us the word distance, so we could name our deepest sadness.

Whales are scarce as hen's teeth whenever thou art up here. Perhaps they were; or perhaps there might have been shoals of them in the far horizon; but lulled into such an opium-like listlessness of vacant, unconscious reverie is this absent-minded youth by the blending cadence of waves with thoughts, that at last he loses his identity; takes the mysticocean at his feet for the visible image of that deep, blue, bottomless soul, pervading mankind and nature; and every strange, half-seen, gliding, beautiful thing that eludes him; every dimly-discovered, uprising fin of some undiscernible form, seems to him the embodiment of those elusive thoughts that only people the soul by continually flitting through it. In this enchanted mood, thy spirit ebbs away to whence it came; becomes diffused through time and space; like Wickliff's sprinkled Pantheistic ashes, forming at last a part of every shore the round globe over. There is no life in thee, now, except that rocking life imparted by a gently rolling ship; by her, borrowed from the sea; by the sea, from the inscrutable tides of God. But while this sleep, this dream is on ye, move your foot or hand an inch; slip your hold at all; and your identity comes back in horror. Over Descartian vortices you hover. And perhaps, at mid-day, in the fairest weather, with one half-throttled shriek you drop through that transparent air into the summer sea, no more to rise for ever. Heed it well, ye Pantheists!

Aubade" Who lives where summer ends knows the hard cold of autumn is blissfully close, although it feels each season newly un- known. You are constantly newly unknown to me, my night-glowing open-hearted sting-of-salt weather. Rains and winds, sleights-of- hand. Who if not you could weigh me enough down. You’d paint my eyes blacker and warmer than they are and soon they would carry whole calendars of black night in them. You say you’re pulled back, but it is a rare thing inside those shocks of minutes that holds without our even needing to touch it. Maybe you think you trade one clean joy for another. But mine is darker, slanted, nitrous blue at the root, an acrostic of what is most free and far. To be another person than the one you were before means more than I understand. But my gradual hands move in streams over you whether you travel or not, as you drop into sleep or not, and in the book of this most-alone-place I am there only when you feel need, a coat so thin and so like skin you can touch the slopes, the smoother pools, dust-mooded winds over roads, the skeleton instrument of your voice as it richens the maps and paths, summer’s last shades of white on dark soil, as if the moon-moth and house-mouth were close against the lashes of your eyes, puzzles-in- flutter, or wandering off through the warm night air, unlikely ever again to find such light as this. from Boston Review: August 21, 2013

One of the few entry points to the Baltic Sea, the Kattegat passage is a busy and treacherous waterway. The entire region is a maze of fractured islands, shallow waters and tricky cur-rents which test the skills of all mariners. A vital sea route, the strait is used by large container ships, oil tankers and cruise ships alike and provides a crucial link between the Baltic coun-tries and Europe and the rest of the world. Navigating is difficult even in calm weather and clear visibility is a rare occurrence in these higher latitudes. During severe winters, it’s not uncommon for sections of the Baltic Sea to freeze, with ice occasionally drifting out of the straits, carried by the surface currents. The ship I was commandeering was on a back-and-forth ‘pendulum’ run, stopping at the ports of St Petersburg (Russia), Kotka (Finland), Gdańsk (Poland), Aarhus (Denmark) and Klaipėda (Lithuania) in the Baltic Sea, and Bremerhaven (Ger-many) and Rotterdam (Netherlands) in the North Sea. On this particular trip, the weather gods were in a benevolent mood and we were transiting under a faultless blue sky in one of the most picturesque regions of the world. The strait got narrower as we sailed closer to Zealand (Sjælland), the largest of the off-lying Danish islands. Up ahead, as we zigzagged through the laby-rinth of islands, the tall and majestic Great Belt Bridge sprang into view. The pylons lift the suspension bridge some sixty-five metres above sea level allowing it to accommodate the largest of the ocean cruise liners that frequently pass under its domi-nating expanse.

Why, thou monkey,” said a harpooneer to one of these lads, “we’ve been cruising now hard upon three years, and thou hast not raised a whale yet. Whales are scarce as hen’s teeth whenever thou art up here.” Perhaps they were; or perhaps there might have been shoals of them in the far horizon; but lulled into such an opium-like listlessness of vacant, unconscious reverie is this absent-minded youth by the blending cadence of waves with thoughts, that at last he loses his identity; takes the mystic ocean at his feet for the visible image of that deep, blue, bottomless soul, pervading mankind and nature; and every strange, half-seen, gliding, beautiful thing that eludes him; every dimly-discovered, uprising fin of some undiscernible form, seems to him the embodiment of those elusive thoughts that only people the soul by continually flitting through it. In this enchanted mood, thy spirit ebbs away to whence it came; becomes diffused through time and space; like Crammer’s sprinkled Pantheistic ashes, forming at last a part of every shore the round globe over. There is no life in thee, now, except that rocking life imparted by a gently rolling ship; by her, borrowed from the sea; by the sea, from the inscrutable tides of God. But while this sleep, this dream is on ye, move your foot or hand an inch; slip your hold at all; and your identity comes back in horror. Over Descartian vortices you hover. And perhaps, at midday, in the fairest weather, with one half-throttled shriek you drop through that transparent air into the summer sea, no more to rise for ever. Heed it well, ye Pantheists!

For many, an explosion of mental problems occurred during the first months of the pandemic and will continue to progress in the post-pandemic era. In March 2020 (at the onset of the pandemic), a group of researchers published a study in The Lancet that found that confinement measures produced a range of severe mental health outcomes, such as trauma, confusion and anger.[153] Although avoiding the most severe mental health issues, a large portion of the world population is bound to have suffered stress to various degrees. First and foremost, it is among those already prone to mental health issues that the challenges inherent in the response to the coronavirus (lockdowns, isolation, anguish) will be exacerbated. Some will weather the storm, but for certain individuals, a diagnostic of depression or anxiety could escalate into an acute clinical episode. There are also significant numbers of people who for the first time presented symptoms of serious mood disorder like mania, signs of depression and various psychotic experiences. These were all triggered by events directly or indirectly associated with the pandemic and the lockdowns, such as isolation and loneliness, fear of catching the disease, losing a job, bereavement and concerns about family members and friends. In May 2020, the National Health Service England’s clinical director for mental health told a Parliamentary committee that the “demand for mental healthcare would increase ‘significantly’ once the lockdown ended and would see people needing treatment for trauma for years to come”.[154] There is no reason to believe that the situation will be very different elsewhere.

Significance of madness in the history of morality. — When in spite of that fearful pressure of ‘morality of custom’ under which all the communities of mankind have lived, many millennia before the beginnings of our calendar and also on the whole during the course of it up to the present day (we ourselves dwell in the little world of the exceptions and, so to speak, in the evil zone): — when, I say, in spite of this, new and deviate ideas, evaluations, drives again and again broke out, they did so accompanied by a dreadful attendant: almost everywhere it was madness which prepared the way for the new idea, which broke the spell of a venerated usage and superstition. Do you understand why it had to be madness which did this? Something in voice and bearing as uncanny and incalculable as the demonic moods of the weather and the sea and therefore worthy of a similar awe and observation? something that bore so visibly the sign of total unfreedom as the convulsions and froth of the epileptic, that seemed to mark the madman as the mask and speaking-trumpet of a divinity? Something that awoke in the bearer of a new idea himself reverence for and dread of himself and no longer pangs of conscience and drove him to become the prophet and martyr of his idea? — while it is constantly suggested to us today that, instead of his grain of salt, a grain of spice of madness is joined to genius, all earlier people found it much more likely that wherever there is madness there is also a grain of genius and wisdom — something ‘divine’, as one whispered to oneself. Or rather: as one said aloud forcefully enough. ‘It is through madness that the greatest good things have come to Greece’, Plato said, in concert with all ancient mankind.

Each year before the first rain after the harvest in Spring, I would look at the dry peach tree that I know so well at our backyard and anticipating that in summer it will be covered in an overgrown hedge unless my father who was a committed gardner of note take a weekend off from Jo'burg during the pruning season to prune it. Even now, I still remember with crystal clarity my childhood mood - warm days in Schoonoord with rich nostalgia of green scenery and flowers flowering everywhere.  One evening I was sitting at the veranda of our firehut looking at the orange tree between the plat (flat - roofed) house and the big L - shaped house - the tree served as a shelter from the sun for the drinking water pot next to the plat house - suddenly the weather changed, the wind howled, the tree swayed, the loose corrugated iron sheets on roof of he house clattered and clanged, the open windows shuts with a bang and the sky made night a day, and I was overwhelmed with that feeling of childhood joy at the approaching rain. All of a sudden, the deafening of steady pouring rain. The raging storm beat the orange tree leaves while I sat there remembering that where the orange tree stood used to be our first house, a small triangular   shaped mokhukhu ((tin house) made of red painted corrugated iron sheets salvaged from demolishing site in Witbank, also remembering that my aunt's mokhukhu was also made of the same type and colour of corrugated iron sheets. The ashen ground drunk merily until it was quenched and the floods started rolling down Leolo Mountains, and what one could hear above the deafening steady pouring rain was the bellowing of the nearby Manyane Dale, and if it was daylight one could have seen the noble Sebilwane River rolling in sullen glide. After about fifteen minutes of steady downpour, and rumbling sounds, the storm went away in a series of small, badly lit battle scenes.

There was an infinity of firmest fortitude, a determinate unsurrenderable wilfulness, in the fixed and fearless, forward dedication of that glance. Not a word he spoke; nor did his officers say aught to him; though by all their minutest gestures and expressions, they plainly showed the uneasy, if not painful, consciousness of being under a troubled master-eye. And not only that, but moody stricken Ahab stood before them with a crucifixion in his face; in all the nameless regal overbearing dignity of some mighty woe. Ere long, from his first visit in the air, he withdrew into his cabin. But after that morning, he was every day visible to the crew; either standing in his pivot-hole, or seated upon an ivory stool he had; or heavily walking the deck. As the sky grew less gloomy; indeed, began to grow a little genial, he became still less and less a recluse; as if, when the ship had sailed from home, nothing but the dead wintry bleakness of the sea had then kept him so secluded. And, by and by, it came to pass, that he was almost continually in the air; but, as yet, for all that he said, or perceptibly did, on the at last sunny deck, he seemed as unnecessary there as another mast. But the Pequod was only making a passage now; not regularly cruising; nearly all whaling preparatives needing supervision the mates were fully competent to, so that there was little or nothing, out of himself, to employ or excite Ahab, now; and thus chase away, for that one interval, the clouds that layer upon layer were piled upon his brow, as ever all clouds choose the loftiest peaks to pile themselves upon. Nevertheless, ere long, the warm, warbling persuasiveness of the pleasant, holiday weather we came to, seemed gradually to charm him from his mood. For, as when the red-cheeked, dancing girls, April and May, trip home to the wintry, misanthropic woods; even the barest, ruggedest, most thunder-cloven old oak will at least send forth some few green sprouts, to welcome such glad-hearted visitants; so Ahab did, in the end, a little respond to the playful allurings of that girlish air. More than once did he put forth the faint blossom of a look, which, in any other man, would have soon flowered out in a smile.

Olivia is always affected by the weather, her mood attuned to its changes. Sunny days make her cheerful. Dark, damp, dreary days like this one always get her down.

Serra is never this cold in the summer. It’s hardly ever this cold in the winter. I look sideways at Cain. The weather must be his doing – his and his ilk. The thought darkens my mood. Is there anything they can’t do? ‘Yes, Elias,’ Cain answers my question. ‘We cannot die.

In Schwarz and Clore’s seminal study on the phenomenon they term “mood as information,” they called people in various zip codes to ask them how satisfied they were with their life—a simple question rather than an elaborate decision task. The zip codes were chosen alongside weather reports. Some people were experiencing a sunny day, and others a rainy day. On average, people expressed higher life satisfaction when the sun was out. But the effect disappeared when the experimenter drew their attention to the weather, by asking, “How’s the weather down there?” In other words, if our attention is drawn to the actual cause of our mood, it stops having an effect. Schwarz and Clore’s findings have been replicated in multiple settings. Stock market returns have been found to be lower on days with greater cloud cover—and higher when a favorite sports team wins. Over and over, incidental events affect decisions they shouldn’t actually influence, simply because they affect how we’re feeling. Tell people what’s going on, though, and they can often overcome it. Which is great news for dealing with tilt

Since the loss of Julia and the opening of the prosecution against him, he had forced himself to make this walk daily. Or if the mood took him and the weather was favorable he would go out in the new dinghy and sail as far as St. Ann’s. Such activity didn’t lift the cloud from his mind, but it helped to set it in proportion for the rest of the day’s tasks. His daughter was dead, his cousin had betrayed him, his much-labored-over smelting scheme was in ashes, he faced charges in the criminal court for which he might well be sentenced to death or life transportation, and if by some chance he survived that, it would be only a matter of months before bankruptcy and imprisonment for debt followed. But, in the meantime, fields had to be sown and reaped, copper had to be raised and marketed, Demelza had to be clothed and fed and cherished—so far as it was in his scope to cherish anyone at this stage. It was Julia’s death that still hit him hardest. Demelza had grieved no less than he, but hers was a more pliant nature, responding involuntarily to stimuli that meant little to him. A celandine flowering out of season, a litter of kittens found unexpectedly in a loft, warm sunshine after a cold spell, the smell of the first swathe of hay: these were always temporary reliefs for her, and so sorrow had less power to injure her. Although he didn’t realize it, much of the cherishing this year had been on her side.

Our thoughts have more power over what happens today than almost anything else; more than our families, more than our schedules, more than the weather. They shape our moods, our feeling of self-worth, our capacity for joy, our sense of abundance. They are constant companions that can be guided to serve us in creating this beautiful day.

Variable rewards or not, no habit will stay interesting forever. At some point, everyone faces the same challenge on the journey of self-improvement: you have to fall in love with boredom. We all have goals that we would like to achieve and dreams that we would like to fulfill, but it doesn’t matter what you are trying to become better at, if you only do the work when it’s convenient or exciting, then you’ll never be consistent enough to achieve remarkable results. I can guarantee that if you manage to start a habit and keep sticking to it, there will be days when you feel like quitting. When you start a business, there will be days when you don’t feel like showing up. When you’re at the gym, there will be sets that you don’t feel like finishing. When it’s time to write, there will be days that you don’t feel like typing. But stepping up when it’s annoying or painful or draining to do so, that’s what makes the difference between a professional and an amateur. Professionals stick to the schedule; amateurs let life get in the way. Professionals know what is important to them and work toward it with purpose; amateurs get pulled off course by the urgencies of life. David Cain, an author and meditation teacher, encourages his students to avoid being “fair-weather meditators.” Similarly, you don’t want to be a fair-weather athlete or a fair-weather writer or a fair-weather anything. When a habit is truly important to you, you have to be willing to stick to it in any mood. Professionals take action even when the mood isn’t right. They might not enjoy it, but they find a way to put the reps in. There have been a lot of sets that I haven’t felt like finishing, but I’ve never regretted doing the workout. There have been a lot of articles I haven’t felt like writing, but I’ve never regretted publishing on schedule. There have been a lot of days I’ve

Just as the weather changes, our moods and emotions can shift. But, life doesn't revolve around our temporary feelings or manipulative behaviors. Consistency, reliability, and honesty are essential for building trust and strong relationships. Let's strive to be understanding and adaptable, yet also dependable and genuine in our words and actions, creating a stable foundation for our connections with others.

Our lives are constantly changing. Every day we deal with disruptions; it is just the extent of the disruption that varies. There are infinite little self-adjustments that we can make, such as shifting our mood or energy, that help us deal with these disruptions. Just like the suspension of a car helps the car weather bumps in the road.

Our lives are constantly changing. Every day we deal with disruptions; it is just the extent of the disruption that varies. There are infinite little self-adjustments that we can make, such as shifting our mood or energy, that help us deal with these disruptions. Just like the suspension of a car helps the car weather bumps in the road.

I wish your moods were as easy to predict as the weather but there is no app to help me navigate the treacherous landscape of your unhinged emotions

wolfsbane. I also noticed my moods can affect the weather, but

Here on Level 9, the rain dripped molasses slow, thick with the commulative weight of shadows cast by the levels above. This close to midnight, the very air sagged with relentless damp.

If I have dealt at some length with this single side of Wesley's character-I mean his preoccupation with strange psychological disturbances, now commonly minimized-it is because I think he, and the other prophets of the Evangelical movement, have succeeded in imposing upon English Christianity a pattern of their own. They have succeeded in identifying religion with a real or supposed experience. I say 'real or supposed', because in the nature of things you cannot prove the validity of any trance, vision, or ecstasy; it remains something within the mind. Still less can you prove the validity of a lifelong Christ-inspired attitude; in the last resort, all it proves is that certain psychological influences are strong enough to overcome, in a given case, all the temptations towards backsliding which a cynical world affords. But, for better or worse, the England which weathered the excitements and disappointments of the early nineteenth century was committed to a religion of experience; you did not base your hopes on this or that doctrinal calculation; you knew. For that reason the average Englishman was, and is, singularly unaffected by reasonings which would attempt to rob him of his theological certainties, whatever they may be. For that reason, also, he expects much (perhaps too much) of his religion in the way of verified results; he is easily disappointed if it does not run according to schedule. It must chime in with his moods, rise superior to his temptations; a decent average of special providences must convince him that it works. Otherwise, though without rancour, he abandons the practice of it. He is not prepared for that unrewarded adventure of naked faith which is, for the Quietist, the common lot of Christians. Not on the scale, but in the spirit, of those eighteenth-century pioneers, he demands 'heart-work'. And, in days when we are apparently less moved by the crowd-appeal, it is hard to come by.

By this time the rain is descending in sheets and I am feeling quite as wet and dejected as the weather. I am in the mood when one forgets one’s blessings and counts one’s troubles, when nothing seems good and the world seems grey and drab. I have a son, but he has gone away. I have a husband, but I have not seen him for months. It may be years before I see Tim, it certainly will be years before we can settle down to a reasonably peaceful life. What is the use of being married when you can’t be together? It is misery, no less. All very well for Tony to say think of the future—I do think of it most of the time but you can’t live on hope forever. There are times—and this is one of them—when the savour goes out of life, when you lose heart, when you feel you can’t go on, when you would give everything you possess for one glimpse of the person you love . . .

Walking out, the weather finally matches my mood.  What kind of woman get’s rejected twice in the month of February?

But imagine this though. Imagine having a mood system that functions essentially like weather—independently of whatever’s going on in your life. So the facts of your life remain the same, just the emotional fiction that you’re responding to differs. It’s like I’m not properly insulated—so all the bad and the good ways that you and most of the people in adjacent neighborhoods and around the world feel—that pours directly into my system unchecked. It’s so fun. I call it “getting on my grid” or ESP: Egregious Sensory Protection. But ultimately I feel I’m very sane about how crazy I am.

i wish your moods were as easy to predict as the weather but there is no app to help me navigate the treacherous landscape of your unhinged emotions • boys without mothers

Your moods change like the weather, but your consciousness remains constant like the sky

other again. But it seems that my wife’s mood towards me is even colder than the weather outside,

Thanks, it's ok.' I say, trying to brush it off, trying to force my usual smile. For some reason, my mouth doesn't cooperate. 'We don't have to talk about it. I don't want to bring down the mood.

Sworbreck was dealing with the baker first. He was a chubby man, which made him look guilty of eating well, and he was sweating profusely, which made him look guilty of being warm, both of them capital crimes in this lean winter of the Great Change. “I been a baker twenty years,” he was saying. “My father was a baker.” “Hoarders!” someone screamed. “Take ’em to the Tower!” “Take ’em all!” The Styrian woman clutched her face with her hands as if she wanted to crush it between them. “Mercy!” she blubbed. “Mercy!” The court was not without it. Judge was the voice of the mob. She was their bitter rage, their envy and their greed, but she was also their sentimental forgiveness. When the mood turned for some well-spoken old man, some innocent-looking young woman, first Judge’s chin would crinkle, then her lower lip would tremble, then her black eyes would well with tears. Sometimes she would vault from behind the High Table, kiss the accused, clasp their head to her rusted breastplate. Then they would be embraced by weeping guards, applauded on their way out of the hall while songs were sung and slogans chanted, free Citizens and Citizenesses, enemies no more! Perhaps Judge liked seeing the hope in the eyes of the accused, so she could see it crushed. Perhaps she truly believed she was doing the good work and rejoiced in those righteously acquitted as much as those rightfully convicted. Perhaps—surely the most terrible possibility of all—she was doing the good work, and somehow he could not see it. The baker was trying to defend himself, but how to prove false what was self-evidently absurd? “I charged the lowest prices I could and still stay in business! But flour’s gone up so high—” “And so we come to you!” roared Sworbreck at the miller. He was bony and severe, with a habit of peering up shiftily from under his brows that did him no favours. “There was a poor harvest!” he barked out. “Now the cold weather’s frozen the canals, snarled up the roads. It’s hard to get goods into the city.” “Ah, so the government is to blame?” Sworbreck spread his arms towards the benches behind the dock, where the Representatives gravely shook their heads at such a slander. “And since the government consists of those chosen by the people…” Sworbreck leaned back, raised his arms to the balconies. “The people are to blame?

Thirdly, and rather like Artemis/Diana, Shakespeare's fairy queen is intimately associated with the natural environment.  Her quarrel with Oberon not only damages their marriage and disturbs the harmony of their court; it disrupts the weather and the growing of the crops.  This is summarised by Titania when she tells Bottom that: "I am a spirit of no common rate. The summer still doth tend upon my state."44 She rules over the seasons and they follow her moods.

London is actually a beautiful place when the weather's good; the mood is lighter and everybody's smiling. But for the other 350 days a year, it's miserable. You're standing there waiting for the bus in the rain or you're waiting for a train on a platform and it's freezing. Always a persistent drizzle - or if it's not drizzling, it's overcast and cold.

Neither the weather nor the bus’s tardiness, however, had done anything to dampen Driggs’s exuberant mood. Not only had he never been to New York City (or any large city, for that matter), but this particular form of transportation was also a first for him. “I have a bus ticket!” he exclaimed upon boarding. The driver did not share his enthusiasm. “Yes. You do.” “Where do we sit?” “Right here,” Lex said, shoving him into the nearest open seat. “Now shut up before we get stabbed.” “What do you mean?” “I mean,” she said through gritted teeth, “that probably half the people on this bus are carrying weapons. So just sit down— no, sit down!” He had gotten up to look inside the overhead storage compartment. She grabbed his shoulders and forcefully pushed him onto the seat. “Sit down, look out the window, and eat your candy.” Driggs took out a Snickers bar and happily munched away, occasionally pausing to marvel at the appearance of roadkill. “Flat as a pancake,” he’d say to the window

Steph, I’m really not in the mood this morning for your attitude,” I growled.   “Too bad,” she shot at me. “Your girlfriend spent the night on my couch.”   “What?” My reaction got a snide little smirk out of her. I pushed my annoyance to side and questioned her about Bella.   “She’s fine. So far. Stubborn girl that one.” She pushed her sunglasses up on top of her head, pushing her chestnut curls out of the way of her eyes. “She told me about her kid.” Her voice dropped and she walked around her Camaro until she was standing in front of me. With the sun just starting to rise, her face looked soft. Like it used to before so much hatred and pain settled in her expression.   “Why is she by you? Why isn’t she here?” I sunk my hands into my front pockets, trying to keep my voice civil. Getting all hard on Steph would only send her packing back up into her car and heading out without giving me any information. And if Bella was hiding out there, Steph would make the fucking place a fortress to keep me out.   “She doesn’t want to see you, or want your help.” She leaned against her car. “Apparently, her friends are involved on the wrong side of this shit storm, and she doesn’t have anyone else.”   We never talked about family. She knew about my brother, but she didn’t talk about her family. Did she even have anyone other than that fucking ex of hers? “Did she finally get a hold of Ashley?”   “Yeah, well, sort of. Not that it was any help. The important call she got was from Shadow.”   “Shadow called her?” My hands came out of my pockets, balled into fists, and I took a step toward her. Stella weathered more than one shit storm, as she liked to call them, while married to Jaxson, she kept her ground, not even flinching.   “Yeah. He’s got the little girl. The fucking prick.” Her eyes widened and her mouth went taught. Jaxson never could get her to quit cursing like a biker, but I think it was one of the things he found so damn irresistible about her. She didn’t take shit from anyone, but she could sure as hell dish it out when she needed to.   “What did he want?”   “He wants to meet her. Said he’d give her back the kid if she meets him this morning at eleven.”   The little hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Bella wasn’t as seasoned as Stella.

And there's the happiness, again. Flickering, moth-like, just under her sternum. She presses a hand up to the place. If she could leave the embered blackness behind her eyelids and travel to the spot where feelings are made, perhaps she could farm the right ones. She has recently become attuned to the way Dad takes the temperature of her mood and attempts to chart it... Every night before bed, he says, 'Three happy things?' It's pretty easy. There's always weather of some sort: sun, snow, rain, wind. There's food - her favourite cereal or a nice pudding. And one other bit of happiness, which can be absolutely anything: clean sheets, a book, one of Dad's ideas - it doesn't matter whether the idea will actually happen, the optimism dominoes from him to her, regardless.

The first intimation of a new romance for a woman of the court was the arrival at her door of a messenger bearing a five-line poem in an unfamiliar hand. If the woman found the poem sufficiently intriguing, the paper it was written on suitable for its contents and mood, and the calligraphy acceptably graceful, her encouraging reply—itself in the form of a poem—would set in motion a clandestine, late-night visit from her suitor. The first night together was, according to established etiquette, sleepless; lovemaking and talk were expected to continue without pause until the man, protesting the night’s brevity, departed in the first light of the predawn. Even then he was not free to turn his thoughts to the day’s official duties: a morning-after poem had to be written and sent off by means of an ever-present messenger page, who would return with the woman’s reply. Only after this exchange had been completed could the night’s success be fully judged by whether the poems were equally ardent and accomplished, referring in image and nuance to the themes of the night just passed. Subsequent visits were made on the same clandestine basis and under the same circumstances, until the relationship was either made official by a private ceremony of marriage or ended. Once she had given her heart, a woman was left to await her lover’s letters and appearances at her door at nightfall. Should he fail to arrive, there might be many explanations—the darkness of the night, inclement weather, inauspicious omens preventing travel, or other interests. Many sleepless nights were spent in hope and speculation, and, as evidenced by the poems in this book, in poetic activity. Throughout the course of a relationship, the exchange of poems served to reassure, remind, rekindle or cool interest, and, in general, to keep the other person aware of a lover’s state of mind. At the same time, poetry was a means of expressing solely for oneself the uncertainties, hopes, and doubts which inevitably accompanied such a system of courtship, as well as a way of exploring other personal concerns.

That is, good weather promotes risk taking. The sunshine puts people in a good mood and does not inhibit their ability to quantitatively assess choices. So, they continue to have the mental capacity to be critical, but the good mood seems to bias them toward making decisions through optimism and lower risk aversion.

Night had fallen, and I was in the kitchen making a yummy peanut butter and jelly sandwich when I heard the doorbell. I jumped and my heart gave a little kick. This was so a horror-movie scene--bad weather, and a girl cut off from the outside world. Only killers didn’t usually ring the doorbell. Still, I opened a drawer and took out the meat cleaver Mom used for cutting chicken. The doorbell rang again and kept ringing. “All right already,” I muttered as I hurried down the hallway. I hesitated when I saw a large shadowy form behind the etched-glass window of the door. I’d turned on the porch light, and whoever was there blocked most of it. “Ashleigh!” The figure banged on the door and I nearly dropped the cleaver. Josh. My beating heart should have returned to a normal speed, but it didn’t. I wasn’t ready to face him yet. I jerked open the door. “What?” Covered in frost and snow, he edged past me. “Geez, it’s cold out there.” “And you just brought the cold inside.” I shut the door. “What are you doing here?” “My dad called and--what the hell is that?” He pointed to the cleaver. I angled my chin. “I was in the middle of cutting my peanut butter and jelly sandwich.” “With a meat cleaver?” “It’s quick and makes a perfectly straight cut.” He grinned. “Yeah, right. You’ve obviously watched too many movies. Who’d you think I was? Freddy Krueger?” “What are you doing here?” I repeated, not in the mood for his sarcasm or teasing. Plus I was feeling a little silly holding my weapon of choice.

And when I say “think,” I want you to think about the subject, the location, the perspective, the lighting, the timing, the weather, the mood, the pose, the clothes, the expression, the composition, and yes, the camera settings. That’s a lot to absorb,

...I began planning all my work this way, beginning with a concrete student objective (e.g., to write a haiku) and a detailed analysis of the task involved, including the necessary knowledge of the form, knowledge of the kinds of content, and the procedures involved in actually producing one. I began to plan in terms of the prerequisite knowledge for a task and to delay teaching until that was in place. I began inventing activities that would make initial approaches to learning tasks simpler (e.g., providing the first line of the poem) and sequencing learning activities from easy to difficult. Underneath all this planning lay the concept of inquiry...That is, I worked to set up lessons so that the students could derive and test rules, generalizations, and interpretations for themselves. Most important, I learned that what and how much students learned was dependent on my planning and my care in bringing those plans to fruition in the classroom. I would never be able to view teaching as a hit-or-miss operation again, one that was subject to the vagaries of the weather, students' moods, and other random factors out of my control. I learned that if students did not learn, on any given day, I should look for the cause in my assumptions about the learning tasks, my planning, my teaching, or all three. I suddenly was more excited about teaching English to junior high students than about my graduate work. As I look back on it now, what I had considered a disgraceful demotion was one of the most important events in my life.

There are all kinds and degrees of depression as well as types of moods associated with it.   It is not selected on a daily basis as we would select our clothes, instead we usually just get whatever falls from the emotional “weather” we are experiencing at that time.  Everyone experiences various moods to some degree and can understand the underlying complexity of all emotions.  So it is important not to over-simplify any emotion and specifically depression.

Day by day as autumn tanned the valley around us, now with bright frost weather, now with rain carrying the first chill of winter, my father stayed in the dusk of his grief. That sandbagged mood, I understand now, can only have been a kind of battle fatigue-the senses blasted around in him by that morning of death and the thousands of inflicting minutes it was followed by.

You remain. (Hebrews 1:11) There are so many people who sit by their fireplace all alone! They sit by another chair, once filled, and cannot restrain the tears that flow. They sit alone so much, but there is someone who is unseen and just within their reach. But for some reason, they don’t realize His presence. Realizing it is blessed yet quite rare. It is dependent upon their mood, their feelings, their physical condition, and the weather. The rain or thick fog outside, the lack of sleep and the intense pain, seem to affect their mood and blur their vision so they do not realize His presence. There is, however, something even better than realizing, and even more blessed. It is completely independent of these other conditions and is something that will abide with you. It is this: recognizing that unseen presence, which is so wonderful, quieting, soothing, calming, and warming. So recognize the presence of the Master. He is here, close to you, and His presence is real. Recognizing will also help your ability to realize but is never dependent upon it. Yes, there is immeasurably more—the truth is a presence, not a thing, a fact, or a statement. Some One is present, and He is a warmhearted Friend and the all-powerful Lord. This is a joyful truth for weeping hearts everywhere, no matter the reason for the tears, or whatever stream their weeping willow is planted beside. Samuel Dickey Gordon

I tried to explain my longing for the vanished city. As the walls go on rising, the character of the place grows more and more obscure. The mood of a street or suburb, that unlikely blend of outlooks expressed by the houses and the people living in them, no longer brushes off on you as you pass. You think there is life behind one guarded façade or another, a mind behind the blank stare, but you cannot be sure. ‘It’s creepy,’ she said, ‘I absolutely agree. It’s like those people at Moyo who eat three courses without taking off their shades. You think they must be watching you, and so you watch them, which is the whole point.’ I take comfort in the debris strewn over the walls: the shadows of numbers pilfered for scrap, the unstrung lyres of electric fencing, the armed response signs, especially the old and weathered ones, which fade unevenly depending on how their colours stand up to the sun. Sometimes the names and numbers of the companies have bleached out entirely while the emblems of snarling dogs and charging elephants persist. All that remains on the oldest signs is two black pistols pointed at one another in a perpetual showdown. Their candour is admirable. They’re empty gestures, like snapped wires and dog-eared spikes. The company faded away years ago, but their boards are still everywhere saying, ‘Bang!’ I" (from "Double Negative" by Ivan Vladislavic, Teju Cole)

Whitestone became what everyone around Trump had to become—long-suffering—because Trump was always ready to explode with anger. “It’s not your fault,” said Whitestone. “It’s just your turn, was how we put it.” “How’s the weather?” was the code for the boss’s mood.

the late morning sun warm and pleasant on my skin, the weather in complete contradiction to my mood. God mother-nature can be a sarcastic bitch.

You may have control of your life, but you cannot control your environment. You cannot control the economy, trends, family circumstances, accidents, unexpected expenses, and the weather of life. You cannot control other people and their moods, personal situations, or issues. You cannot control biases or changes in your industry of choice. You cannot even control jealousy and envy in others. However, you can control your own STRENGTH to get back up and START AGAIN. Destiny is manifested only through action. You cannot be the captain of your own destiny, only the sailor, because we cannot control external influences that may alter the stability or direction of our ships. Once you understand this basic principle, you won't be so hard on yourself when things don't go your way. If man could write his own fate, he would have designed his journey to be without obstacles. Yet all obstacles come with valuable lessons designed just for you and only you. Suffering is imposed on us time and again so that one day we would become brave wise masters. Faith keeps our ships moving, while empathy and the memories of our experiences lead to wisdom.” ― Suzy Kassem

YOU’RE THE ONE IN CHARGE “I have come to the frightening conclusion that I am the decisive element. It is my personal approach that creates the climate. It is my daily mood that makes the weather. I possess tremendous power to make life miserable or joyous. I can be a tool of torture or an instrument of inspiration, I can humiliate or humor, hurt or heal. In all situations, it is my response that decides whether a crisis is escalated or de-escalated, and a person is humanized or de-humanized. If we treat people as they are, we make them worse. If we treat people as they ought to be, we help them become what they are capable of becoming.” —JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE

Seasons are but just environmental moods.

Fours’ moods are like fast-moving weather patterns. In the blink of an eye they can go from up to down, back to average, then plummet, then soar and finally return to baseline. In fact, Fours can feel overwhelmed from experiencing so many feelings at one time that when it comes time to organize them, they don’t know which one to pick out and talk about first. Do you see the problem? If the identity of the Four is hitched to their feelings, then it’s always changing. Their sense of self never stabilizes. Until they wake up it’s like watching someone riding the emotional equivalent of the El Diablo roller coaster at Six Flags.

He knew the weather did not make a place what it was; it only helped to change people’s moods and sometimes to make things more bearable. In the end, it was all just mood lighting, painting over the grey truths of this dreary canvas of a town.

romance moved fast, and though Evie found it hard to imagine now, once she’d been a passionate lover. Once, she’d been on fire. Evie could put her finger precisely on the moment when things changed. It was an unusually warm evening; the sun was just settling, a deep crimson in the sky and she had been feeling a little low. Dr Stackhouse put it down to the menopause. She did not want to tell him that was already well behind her. So she smiled at him, in spite of the mild embarrassment, and headed for Carlinville, a six months’ supply of St John’s Wort and Evening Primrose Oil in her bag. Her mood had not lifted in months. Maybe she already knew something had changed between them. Paul came home that day, dangled a shiny set of keys before her. ‘It’s a classic,’ he told her. He forced a smile, but there was, she knew, nothing behind it. ‘I’ve bought it for us. I thought maybe I could take you out for spins, and if the weather is fine, we could bring a picnic.’ ‘Or perhaps I could drive…’ she said hopefully. ‘Dear, Evie, we both know where that almost ended up.’ Her father had made sure it was one of the few things he told Paul. He enjoyed recounting her near brush with the law and her habit of resting a little too heavily, in his opinion, on the accelerator. ‘We don’t want you thinking you’re in Monaco, do we?’ Paul smiled. He had no idea how much his words hurt. He had no more aspirations for her than her father had. Maybe he wanted to take care of her, but all too soon, he was taking care of someone else. In his expression, her whole world seemed to topple over. She knew that he was trapped. Trapped by his love for

Likewise, unless you live close to the equator, you will have different seasons. Surely, for many it is nicer when it is hot and sunny than when it is cold and wet. Still, you learn to cope with it. If the weather causes a bad mood in you, of course this is not the fault of the whether, but an indication that you need to deepen your roots within to become more stable and centered.

Moods for books changed like the weather. Sometimes you wanted something profound to lose yourself in; a completely different world. Sometimes you wanted a romp.

The Sun, Moon & Stars The moon represents our emotions which has its own gravitational pull to move the flow of energy within us. Emotions come high and low like an ebb tide when experiencing a wide range of emotions. The flow can either lower or raise the human bodies hormones and chemicals, similar to a smooth sea before a storm surge causing sea levels to rise. The suns represents the inner light shining within us. The warmth of the sun improves our mood by reducing stress levels. When sunlight is not accessible to view during stormy weather, than darkness veils the lack of object permanence. When free from disturbance, the internal energy remains brightly calm in a tranquil state, solid as a grounded glacier. Losing your cool melts the ice, feeding a rising tide. The stoic mindset has the the affect of a bower anchor in moving water. Stars symbolize life's rhythmic cycle of life and death. As dying stars breathe life into our world on to the next, leaving behind time and space of elements for the new generation to build from. Stars are the ingredients to our biological activity which formulate in our voyage. Besides hydrogen and helium, all of earth's elements are from the stars, assuming the proof of a relational connectedness. The infused brightness resonates within our souls as we navigate. Stars are proof of G-D's eminent creation, reflecting above the world as we gaze in awe, fascinated by the luminous glow from there distance.

Are you finished with your little meeting?” Audrey asked, setting down her magazine and smiling up at her brother. The way she’d said “little meeting” left Lucien with no doubt they were having fun at their expense, or perhaps it was her biting her bottom lip to prevent her laughter that gave her away. Regardless, Cedric’s sisters had challenged the men and they were in no mood to play games. Especially Cedric. “You.” Cedric pointed to Audrey. “Bed, now!” His accusing finger then swept towards Emily. “Since when do you embroider? I distinctly recall you telling me once that such a thing was a complete and utter waste of time.” “Considering your rather callous behavior tonight in leaving us out of your decisions, I decided to renew the rather useless habit,” Emily replied as though speaking of the weather. She politely held up the embroidery hoop, which was festooned with flowers around a simple phrase every single man in the room could read, Never Challenge a Woman. Lucien could only imagine how she must have embroidered that in so short a time. “We left you out of it because this matter doesn’t concern any of you ladies. Besides, it is a delicate and dangerous situation,” Cedric said. “Hmm,” Emily responded, the feminine sound came out strangely condescending. “Perhaps we ladies are keeping you out of a dangerous situation and haven’t bothered to inform you of our intentions. If you insist on keeping us in the dark, we will persist in our efforts to keep all of you alive regardless of your belief that we are incapable females.

A group of people was something like a primitive organism, affected by mood and atmosphere and even weather, resistant to change, with each member playing a specific role. Leaders, followers, scourges, clowns—every group had them, and people slipped into their parts as easily as actors taking on familiar stock roles.

Samir loves Joe’s face. He studies it every day in class: a face as old as his own but already, in eighteen years, the cliffs and hills and odd proportions of its geography have been shaped by life’s weather. Samir likes to observe the ever-watchful green eyes, hidden in their shadowy alcoves over the at nose and cheekbones, and the heavy brow that scrunches up with Joe’s moods – all those sculptural planes could have been carved by Easter Islanders. en there’s the pout of his lips, the pucker of their concentration or the twist of their anger. But most of all, Samir examines the thoughts as they cross the wide-open landscape of the face. Tries hard to read their cloud shapes from the merest shadow.

Samir loves Joe’s face. He studies it every day in class: a face as old as his own but already, in eighteen years, the cli s and hills and odd proportions of its geography have been shaped by life’s weather. Samir likes to observe the ever-watchful green eyes, hidden in their shadowy alcoves over the at nose and cheekbones, and the heavy brow that scrunches up with Joe’s moods – all those sculptural planes could have been carved by Easter Islanders. en there’s the pout of his lips, the pucker of their concentration or the twist of their anger. But most of all, Samir examines the thoughts as they cross the wide-open landscape of the face. Tries hard to read their cloud shapes from the merest shadow.

Samir loves Joe’s face. He studies it every day in class: a face as old as his own but already, in eighteen years, the cliffs and hills and odd proportions of its geography have been shaped by life’s weather. Samir likes to observe the ever-watchful green eyes, hidden in their shadowy alcoves over the at nose and cheekbones, and the heavy brow that scrunches up with Joe’s moods – all those sculptural planes could have been carved by Easter Islanders. en there’s the pout of his lips, the pucker of their concentration or the twist of their anger. But most of all, Samir examines the thoughts as they cross the wide-open landscape of the face. Tries hard to read their cloud shapes from the merest shadow.

This was no longer the Sarah who was unable to stop herself from making phone calls and then not saying a word, who was hurt so much by her memories that she ended up crying. This was the levelheaded Sarah I knew. “Well, take care. I've got to go back to the room,” Sarah said. “Okay. . . . Good-bye then,” I replied. I was now totally awake. The patch of sky visible through the window was a strange wash of subtle gradations of cloud and blue, and the interior of the room was very bright. Some-how that brightness felt terribly sad. What strange weather, I thought. “Sarah, I hope you'll be happy—I really hope you'll be happy!” “Thanks, Shi-ba-mi,” Sarah said. And then the line went dead. I settled into a strange mood—it felt as if I'd seen something through to its conclusion, but at the same time I felt overwhelmingly sad. It occurred to me once again how incredible Mari was. To think she'd figured out that Sarah was back in Japan just from listening to a silent phone call! There hadn't been the slightest hint of uncertainty in her eyes when she told me it was Sarah. She had known. Yes . . . perhaps Mari, wandering in the interval between dream and reality as she was, perhaps she could sense that much, figure out who was calling almost before she knew it, feel it as clearly as something she held cupped in her hand.

A club of sunshine whacked me right between the eyes. Like to laid me out. Gah! An ill omen for sure. These bright days are never kind. Everybody I ran into would be just like the weather: warm and sunny. Argh! I was in the mood for low overcast and light drizzle, maybe with a frigid south wind. I peeled layers of fried skin off my eyeballs, took another look. Where there is life there is hope.

A grim mood has gripped the country,” the opponent had concluded, barely concealing his own broad grin. And unfortunately, this was perfectly true. The Prime Minister felt it himself; people really did seem more miserable than usual. Even the weather was dismal; all this chilly mist in the middle of July. . . . It wasn’t right, it wasn’t normal. . . .

The weather changes its mood,” said Arthur. “When it’s sunny, like today, it’s full of hope and happiness. People are out. They’re more relaxed. When it rains, it’s romantic as well, but in a somber, melancholy way. The way you feel watching a black-and-white movie.

The light belies the bony solidity of the land, playing over it like emotion on a face, and in this the desert is intensely alive, as the apparent mood of mountains changes hourly, as places that are flat and stark at noon fill with shadows and mystery in the evening, as darkness becomes a reservoir from which the eyes drink, as clouds promise rain that comes like passion and leaves like redemption, rain that delivers itself with thunder, with lightning, with a rise of scents in this place so pure that moisture, dust, and the various bushes all have their own smell in the sudden humidity. Alive with the primal forces of rock, weather, wind, light, and time in which biology is only an uninvited guest fending for itself, gilded, dwarfed, and threatened by its hosts.

When you are with certain people, do you invariably feel like “less?” Do you spend all of your energy worrying about pleasing someone else? Is his or her happiness more important than yours? Are their shifting moods a constant concern to you, because you never know when to expect a storm? It may seem that when you spend time together, you need to work hard to keep them upbeat and happy, as if it were your responsibility. It can seem like a constant struggle, with you never certain just where you’re going to end up. A toxic relationship has lots of negativity. Nothing is ever right. It can be you, your family, your job, your friends, the weather, the food, the news – anything. There’s always something wrong; something to complain about. In a toxic relationship, you can’t ever do anything right. If you get a promotion, you’ll be accused of seeing work as too important. If you don’t get promoted, you’ll be accused of not being competent enough. If you buy a new outfit, you’re a spendthrift. If you wear something old, you’re frumpy. The truth is, you’re caught in a vicious circle where you can no longer win. Toxic relationships can become familiar and almost comfortable, if that is what we are used to. It may become difficult or impossible for you to acknowledge a positive relationship because it lacks the drama that you are used

An early frost was in the air tonight. Wind whipped outside the cabin’s basement windows, the last tendrils of late summer disappearing as fall took root. The dismal turn of the weather was a match for Lou’s mood.

Those of us who’d known Lyle longer knew he didn’t have moods, he had weather. Not some inner weather that could have been a mood—Lyle had the weather. Inside him he had going on exactly what was going on in the sky, or some combination of recent weather and what was likely to develop. Old friends were perfectly happy to sit down and get snowed on for a couple of hours over coffee, though anyone would have preferred the happy emanations of cloudless sky and sun, even if the sun was shining on a snowdrift ten feet deep.

Mom ignored this as she shifted into the aggressive tone she used at her most manic. By then we’d learned to read Mom’s moods; after years on a psychiatrist’s couch she’d finally been diagnosed as bipolar, and we’d come to expect the extreme swings that moved through her like weather, altering every aspect of her being. The

A single "woof" ---Mike was waiting watching. He jumped the busted fence when he saw me coming rushed over so he could greet me properly. I dropped to one knee soaked up Mike's welcome and everything about my bad day ran off me like rainwater rushing along the edge of the road to the drain. Having someone who loves you enough to wait in the dreary weather someone who's happy to see you no matter what mood you're in... there's nothing better than that.

She is a child who's happiness is gauged by the strange weather between her parents, sometimes sunny but more often a gale.

The funny thing about their father was that he wasn’t cold, or at least not always. Mercurial was how she would describe him. Changeable as the weather. And like the weather, he had to be regularly checked to work out what kind of day they were going to have. Lucky and her sisters could tell his mood by the way he closed the front door. Just like you wouldn’t have a picnic in a hailstorm, you couldn’t do certain things around an angry dad. No bickering over the remote, no chatting loudly with friends on the phone, no crying over a bad grade, no laughing over a silly joke, no whining to their mom that they were hungry. He was the only man in the house, but he also was the house. They lived inside his moods.

All her thoughts, feelings, and memories in the air mixed with all the thoughts, feelings, and memories of everyone else whose bones and brains had decayed, and maybe in some ways that was the weather. Everyone all together across the world, their happiness and disappointments jumbled together so that for their children the air became so thick it was difficult to breathe.

Your mood changes like autumn weather,” he remarked.

Every morning, whatever the weather, she would swim in the sea. It made her feel alive. It lifted her mood and was an antidote to the darkness she carried in her heart.

The rule on which I am here insisting should be most carefully observed towards evening. For as darkness makes us timid and apt to see terrifying shapes everywhere, there is something similar in the effect of indistinct thought; and uncertainty always brings with it a sense of danger. Hence, towards evening, when our powers of thought and judgment are relaxed, — at the hour, as it were, of subjective darkness, — the intellect becomes tired, easily confused, and unable to get at the bottom of things; and if, in that state, we meditate on matters of personal interest to ourselves, they soon assume a dangerous and terrifying aspect. This is mostly the case at night, when we are in bed; for then the mind is fully relaxed, and the power of judgment quite unequal to its duties; but imagination is still awake. Night gives a black look to everything, whatever it may be. This is why our thoughts, just before we go to sleep, or as we lie awake through the hours of the night, are usually such confusions and perversions of facts as dreams themselves; and when our thoughts at that time are concentrated upon our own concerns, they are generally as black and monstrous as possible. In the morning all such nightmares vanish like dreams: as the Spanish proverb has it, noche tinta, bianco el dia — the night is colored, the day is white. But even towards nightfall, as soon as the candles are lit, the mind, like the eye, no longer sees things so clearly as by day: it is a time unsuited to serious meditation, especially on unpleasant subjects. The morning is the proper time for that — as indeed for all efforts without exception, whether mental or bodily. For the morning is the youth of the day, when everything is bright, fresh, and easy of attainment; we feel strong then, and all our faculties are completely at our disposal. Do not shorten the morning by getting up late, or waste it in unworthy occupations or in talk; look upon it as the quintessence of life, as to a certain extent sacred. Evening is like old age: we are languid, talkative, silly. Each day is a little life: every waking and rising a little birth, every fresh morning a little youth, every going to rest and sleep a little death. But condition of health, sleep, nourishment, temperature, weather, surroundings, and much else that is purely external, have, in general, an important influence upon our mood and therefore upon our thoughts. Hence both our view of any matter and our capacity for any work are very much subject to time and place. So it is best to profit by a good mood — for how seldom it comes!

inborn weather vane leads the person with ADHD to be the first to sense a shift in mood or energy in the group, the class, the family, the organization, the town, the country.

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Every writer knows about the pathetic fallacy, where the weather, the light and even music can be used to manipulate a reader’s mood. But it seemed that I’d done quite the opposite, allowing my own mood to influence the weather.

There’s something about a cold morning — the way it bites into you, sharp and uninvited, like a stray dog testing your resolve.

The people and situations around you are like the weather. The fact is, you can never control other people—how they think, how they act, whether or not they love you, or how fast they check you out at the grocery store. So why on earth would you ever give them that level of control over you that you have been? Why would you ever entrust something as precious as your confidence, your peace of mind, your happiness, and your dreams to the whims and moods of the people around you?

CineFX AI Software Review – Text-to-Video, AI Motion Graphics & Auto Color Grading In the world of video production, creating high-quality videos has always been a time-consuming and expensive process. Filmmakers, marketers, and content creators often spend hours or even days editing footage, adding effects, and perfecting their videos. However, with the rise of artificial intelligence, many of these challenges are being addressed in innovative ways. One of the leading products in this space is CineFX AI, a powerful AI-based tool designed to make video creation faster, smarter, and more accessible. ► Click Here To Official Website ► Click Here To Official Website CineFX AI is a software platform that uses advanced artificial intelligence algorithms to automate many aspects of video production. From editing and color correction to special effects and transitions, CineFX AI can handle complex tasks that usually require a professional video editor. This makes it ideal for creators who want to save time without compromising on quality. The tool is designed to be user-friendly, meaning even beginners with little technical knowledge can produce professional-looking videos. One of the most impressive features of CineFX AI is its automatic video editing. The software can analyze raw footage, detect key moments, and arrange clips in a coherent and engaging sequence. It can also adjust pacing, add transitions, and even suggest music that matches the mood of the video. This feature alone can save creators hours of tedious work and help them focus on storytelling rather than technical details. Another standout feature is AI-powered visual effects. CineFX AI can generate realistic effects such as explosions, weather changes, or lighting adjustments directly within the software. Users no longer need to rely on expensive third-party plugins or spend days learning complex visual effects techniques. The AI can also enhance video quality by stabilizing shaky footage, improving resolution, and correcting colors automatically. This ensures that every video looks polished and professional. CineFX AI is also designed with collaboration in mind. Teams can work together in real time, sharing projects, editing sequences, and providing feedback directly within the platform. This is particularly useful for businesses, marketing teams, and production houses that need to coordinate multiple contributors. By streamlining the workflow, CineFX AI makes it easier to complete projects on time and maintain a consistent style across videos. Moreover, CineFX AI is constantly learning and improving. The AI adapts to the user’s editing style and preferences, offering smarter suggestions over time. This means the more you use the tool, the more personalized and efficient your video production becomes. For content creators who produce videos regularly, this is a significant advantage, as it reduces repetitive work and allows for more creative freedom. In addition to its professional features, CineFX AI is highly versatile. It supports a wide range of video formats, from social media clips to cinematic films. Whether you are creating short videos for Instagram or full-length movies, CineFX AI can handle the task. Its intuitive interface ensures that even beginners can start producing high-quality videos quickly, while advanced users can access more sophisticated settings and fine-tune their projects. In conclusion, CineFX AI is transforming the way videos are created. By combining the power of artificial intelligence with a user-friendly platform, it enables creators to produce stunning videos in a fraction of the time. Its features, including automatic editing, AI-powered effects, real-time collaboration, and adaptive learning, make it a must-have tool for anyone in video production.

CineFX AI Review – The Tool That Creates Hollywood-Level 3D Videos In the world of video production, creating high-quality videos has always been a time-consuming and expensive process. Filmmakers, marketers, and content creators often spend hours or even days editing footage, adding effects, and perfecting their videos. However, with the rise of artificial intelligence, many of these challenges are being addressed in innovative ways. One of the leading products in this space is CineFX AI, a powerful AI-based tool designed to make video creation faster, smarter, and more accessible. ► Click Here To Official Website ► Click Here To Official Website CineFX AI is a software platform that uses advanced artificial intelligence algorithms to automate many aspects of video production. From editing and color correction to special effects and transitions, CineFX AI can handle complex tasks that usually require a professional video editor. This makes it ideal for creators who want to save time without compromising on quality. The tool is designed to be user-friendly, meaning even beginners with little technical knowledge can produce professional-looking videos. One of the most impressive features of CineFX AI is its automatic video editing. The software can analyze raw footage, detect key moments, and arrange clips in a coherent and engaging sequence. It can also adjust pacing, add transitions, and even suggest music that matches the mood of the video. This feature alone can save creators hours of tedious work and help them focus on storytelling rather than technical details. Another standout feature is AI-powered visual effects. CineFX AI can generate realistic effects such as explosions, weather changes, or lighting adjustments directly within the software. Users no longer need to rely on expensive third-party plugins or spend days learning complex visual effects techniques. The AI can also enhance video quality by stabilizing shaky footage, improving resolution, and correcting colors automatically. This ensures that every video looks polished and professional. CineFX AI is also designed with collaboration in mind. Teams can work together in real time, sharing projects, editing sequences, and providing feedback directly within the platform. This is particularly useful for businesses, marketing teams, and production houses that need to coordinate multiple contributors. By streamlining the workflow, CineFX AI makes it easier to complete projects on time and maintain a consistent style across videos. Moreover, CineFX AI is constantly learning and improving. The AI adapts to the user’s editing style and preferences, offering smarter suggestions over time. This means the more you use the tool, the more personalized and efficient your video production becomes. For content creators who produce videos regularly, this is a significant advantage, as it reduces repetitive work and allows for more creative freedom. In addition to its professional features, CineFX AI is highly versatile. It supports a wide range of video formats, from social media clips to cinematic films. Whether you are creating short videos for Instagram or full-length movies, CineFX AI can handle the task. Its intuitive interface ensures that even beginners can start producing high-quality videos quickly, while advanced users can access more sophisticated settings and fine-tune their projects. In conclusion, CineFX AI is transforming the way videos are created. By combining the power of artificial intelligence with a user-friendly platform, it enables creators to produce stunning videos in a fraction of the time. Its features, including automatic editing, AI-powered effects, real-time collaboration, and adaptive learning, make it a must-have tool for anyone in video production.

Yet in reality, what makes someone feel lonely isn’t usually that they have no one at all they can be with, but that they don’t know a sufficient number of people who could understand the more sincere and quirk-filled parts of themselves. A warm body with whom to have a meal isn’t hard to find; there is always someone with whom one might have a chat about the weather. But loneliness doesn’t end the moment one is talking with someone. It ends when a companion is able to follow us as we reveal our pains and sorrows.

Peculiar Pleasure of Struggling Without a Crutch There is, I have discovered, a peculiar dignity in suffering untainted. One might even call it artisanal anguish—pain in its purest, unadulterated form, free from the chemical counterfeits and fleeting frivolities of the numbed and narcotized. To struggle without addiction is to sip despair neat—no chaser, no chill, no comforting cocktail of escape. It is, in a word, exquisite. And yet, the world frowns upon this flavor of masochism. It whispers seductively of shortcuts: the cigarette for the soul, the glass of good cheer, the endless scroll of digital dopamine. “Go on,” it purrs, “you deserve a little relief.” Ah, but therein lies the trap—the treacherous transition from tranquilization to torment. The reprieve is brief; the reckoning, ruinous. The addict’s cycle is a cruel carousel: a dizzying dance of relief and remorse. The initial sip, puff, click, or swipe feels like a lover’s kiss—warm, understanding, indulgent. But oh, the aftermath! The betrayal! The comedown’s claws sink deep, dragging one’s mood from fleeting euphoria to existential audit. The high, once heavenly, morphs into a hellish hangover of regret and self-recrimination. How much simpler, then, to stay in the storm—to weather the wind rather than chase the calm! The sober struggler suffers steadily, stoically, and without the added insult of having engineered their own undoing. Misery, when left unmedicated, becomes oddly manageable; predictable, even companionable. One learns its moods, its manners, its mild sadism. It becomes, in time, a houseguest rather than a hostage-taker. There is, I concede, no glamour in this path. The unaddicted struggler has no anecdotes of wild binges, no tales of tragic relapse to regale their therapist. But they do have something rarer: consistency. Their lows are low, yes—but they are honestly low, organically cultivated through the diligent discipline of despair. Perhaps this is why the cleanly struggling soul so often radiates an irritating calm. They have, by refusing the refuge of vice, discovered the paradoxical pleasure of prolonged discomfort. Their pain is honest, their fatigue authentic, their mornings clear. They are like monks in a monastery of modern malaise—chanting softly in the echoing halls of their own endurance. So yes, dear reader, struggle. Struggle nobly, nakedly, needlessly. Let your suffering be sincere, your agony artisanal. Eschew the easy ecstasies of intoxication, and you may find, to your astonishment, that misery—when faced without filter—has its own subtle, stubborn sweetness. After all, sobriety may not soothe you. But at least it won’t lie.

Weather is the moods of the world