Here at O'Hare International Airport in Chicago, the few short hours of inclement weather has been pushing us slowly back to the Stone Age. Rows of laptop-bag-toting travellers sit in front of a bank of saturated power outlets, memories of an age when power was an abundant commodity fading faster than than their cell-phone signals. Even the blogging types among them - among us - have resorted to breaking out our dusty pens, previously dry from misuse and neglect in the plentiful days, to record our impressions of the mood of the moment.

Among us, some listen to music players, nervously eyeing the flight listings to see if the batteries will hold out until the oft-delayed departure. Everyone is antsy and jittery, and yet no one wants to get on the plane, knowing that hours of de-icing, followed by hours of runway queuing, awaits them.

A power station opens up and I settle myself in, feeling like a journalist of 40 years ago monopolizing a phone line in order to file a story, quickly logging on, posting, and moving aside for the next traveller.

No one wants to be here, but for myself it's a minor misfortune in a life that has been blissfully free of them, and if nothing else, this can be a lesson that not all things can be changed. Some must merely be dealt with, absorbed, reflected on.