He Fa on the Layered-Raincoat Lecturer

No rain has fallen outside the sand-beige trench coat, yet inside it are already a forest-green suit, striped shirt, narrow tie and checked scarf. Every layer seems to answer possible weather. My body has become a meticulous contingency plan; even the tilted beret seems to reserve an angle for a wind not yet here. The large collar, raised on one side and hanging on the other, prevents me from reading this preparation as perfectly symmetrical protection. One direction will always be exposed. The low belt and long tail remind me that defense has its own range of movement: while keeping things out, fabric may wrap around the knees and impede a turn. Devices for safety create new demands on action.

If I wear every risk as another garment, I may eventually stop feeling the weather altogether. Changes in warmth and cold are held between layers, and the body hears only the echo of its thorough preparation. The troubling part of this hypothesis is that no danger need actually occur. I need only keep believing that removing any layer will expose me.

Traveling light is not necessarily praiseworthy either. Letting someone without shelter stand with me in the rain, then praising their bravery, merely conceals differences in preparation. I do not need to encourage everyone to take risks. I need equipment that can be distributed, borrowed and adjusted to the present circumstances. A spare scarf within reach may be more useful than one forever tightened around the neck.

So I want to set a time to remove this excessively comprehensive trench coat. No plan can live through all possible weather for me in advance. When sunlight actually comes, I should allow the front to open and air to enter layers that have spent too long reassuring one another. Preparation's value includes admitting that some of it will not be used today.