in normie-speak, talking about the weather is shorthand for filling an awkward silence with a polite topic. code, even, for clichéd (if inoffensive) conversation. it’s out of our control, so talking about it can provide instant common ground (unless it sparks the hotly contested topic of climate change). it’s light talk, easy-speak, neutral ground. aka a safe (if, to most people, decidedly boring) perimeter to erect around an interaction.
though it has its place even in those circles. it’s shallow enough, low-stakes enough, to ease the transition from not knowing the other person at all to warming up to a discussion that has more bite. it demonstrates that we’re friendly and aware of the rules of engagement. it’s basically a way of flexing our social competence upfront, signalling that we’re a worthy conversation partner.
the nature of my work means I speak to people all over the world at all hours of the day (and sometimes night). while the purpose is always, ultimately, serious—agreeing to a deal, pitching or being pitched to arrive at said deal, and the like—it’s a dependable expectation that we’ll start by discussing the weather to break the ice and inject a personable element into the conversation; a friendly foundation to build on, allowing a conversation trickle to turn into a stream.
yet, as utilitarian as that approach might be, it happens to be one of my favourite parts of a meeting, no matter its ultimate objective. I’m genuinely interested in hearing what the weather is like where you’re at, because, fascinated with atmospheric conditions, I actually like talking about it.
don’t judge small talk by its short-spectrum focus, but I often find the range of the descriptions rather disappointing. it’s hot or it’s cold, or perhaps raining. that’s about as deep into the topic as the typical person is willing to go. (I’d have had better luck working in climate science.)
share with me that the jacarandas are, weirdly enough, blooming in winter when they usually bloom in spring. sketch me a verbal picture of the sudden god ray painting your cloud-dotted skies with a rich golden watercolour at sunset. tell me about the wind howling around the edges of the building to such a haunting extent that the bricks themselves are questioning the meaning of their life.
“Conversation about the weather,” as Oscar Wilde reputedly said, “is the last refuge of the unimaginative.” a notion I’ve always found rather preposterous, because the weather—if you care to look—is about as imaginative as nature can get. not to mention it really goes to show that “proof” of the meaning of a thing is all too often cooked up in the mind of the beholder.
meteorology, if you’re a hapless pattern junkie like I am, is a treasure trove of curiosities. but more than anything, I adore talking about it because it brings nature into the conversation. as modern-day humans, we often live so far removed from the natural forces that govern our lives that you’d think we’re completely insulated from them. talking about the weather humbles me; it grounds me in the knowledge that we’re here but for the grace of. that whatever we’re there to discuss, it’s not that big a deal, because we know there’s a larger perspective at play; one in which we are to the elements what ants are to us. whatever we know or have can change or be taken away in the blink of an eye (such as with the unexpected arrival of a freak weather event).
that no matter our forecasts or projections, in the end we’re all at the mercy of forces that are, at best, impartial to our existence. that, to me, is an existentially comforting foundation on which to build a life—or a dialogue.
#100DaysToOffload/8