For months people have been cross about the cold. Frozen pipes and slick sidewalks have caused problems even beyond the wintry blasts that bite between the back door and the car. I doubt there has been a single day since New Years when I have neither uttered nor heard a complaint about the sky. 

This week our family retreated to a hideaway in the hills. The thermostat is an overachiever and the rooms are a cozy 77.  My kids had a problem with the heat and tried to turn it down. No response. They resorted to the unthinkable, the crime previously punishable by chores. They opened windows. 

Picky, picky, picky. Too cold. Too hot. Enter Goldilocks. 

Last month John and I were engaged in a larger conversation. There was an ebb and flow as different people jumped in or backed off. At one point I had an opinion about John's participation level. 

"You're talking too much." I didn't say it but I mind melded it in his direction. 

Later the topic morphed into an area of science that John loves. He continued to listen. 

"You're not talking enough."

I caught myself in the paradox. 

Picky, picky, picky. Why is it impossible to just notice the fluctuations without judgment? One of the alluring qualities about the ocean is it's penchant for change. Lakes are nice too but they are predictable. A surfer would say boring. 

Probably if I tossed a year or three's worth of weather into a blender and pushed start the result would be as creamy as a mango smoothie. No doubt if I gathered a decade of John's fluctuating tendencies in a life review time lapse the effect would be as rhythmic as an evening tide.