18 Jan 2010
It’s raining here, and it promises to keep drenching us for the rest of the week. It’s a pretty normal pattern for this part of the country, just a routine dose of precipitation that requires you to have a bit more foresight, and a bit more slick gear, as you step out the door into the rainforest: umbrella, raincoat, boots with raised heels that make them slightly more impervious to puddles.
I like it most in the morning, when I’m safely (and even sometimes warmly) wrapped in my apartment. The first thing I hear when I wake up is pinging, singing: the sound of a small symphony. The melodic beat of the rain on my ceiling, sometimes developing into a truly thunderous crescendo. The percussive plinks of hail against my windows. The occasional high-pitched notes of water hitting the glass top of my kitchen fan. The muffled sound of the palm leaves frantically rustling under the weight and fury of the driving drops.
It’s been a long time since those summers when I would run out into the backyard to dance in the rain, to take in the deliciously lush smell of freshly wetted grass, to feel the coolness of the water on my bare arms and legs and to shriek with glee at what I am sure then I didn’t quite understand was simply the joy of being alive, the sheer endless wonder of the earth.
I think, in spite of all that is irretrievable in time and space, that this rain symphony is gently inviting me, softly asking me to dance, to feel here inside my cozy apartment what I felt then, all those years ago, a rain-drenched girl spinning with delight under the wondrously melting ocean of the sky.