Back in 2014, I wrote about how easy it is to stay "temperature-controlled"—moving from climate-controlled houses to climate-controlled cars, shielded from the very world that sustains us. Today, in the middle of a cold, gray Vermont rain, I decided to ignore the thermostat.

I spent hours today with my hands in the soil I’ve been enriching for a year. It wasn't the "aesthetic" gardening you see on Instagram. It was cold. It was wet. My body ached from the leverage of the pickaxe. But as the rain soaked through my layers, I realized something: we often treat rain as a "hauntingly bad thing," but for the seedlings I was tucking into the earth—the Tulsi, the leeks, the "Cosmonaut" tomatoes—this rain is a literal blessing.

We build these “protected environments” to avoid feeling the world, but in doing so, we isolate ourselves from the natural cycles that actually teach us how to live. When we ignore the interconnectedness of the seasons, we become ignorant of our own impact.

Today, the “environment” wasn’t something to be controlled; it was something to be embodied. I felt the wind on my neck and heard the caw of ravens before that massive Sandhill Crane took my breath away. That moment of “The Pause” only happened because I was willing to be outside of the controlled bubble.

Our society trains us to look at a screen to see if it’s sunny elsewhere. I'm inviting you to look at the rain falling exactly where you are.

What if we harnessed our innate, instinctual connection with the world to focus our creative expression? I’m headed to a hot bath now to soak away the ache of the digging. My hands are sore, but my mind is refreshed.

When was the last time you let the weather “interrupt” your comfort? What did you find there?