It’s raining again and I don’t mind.
I’d rather the precipitation drift down in solid state but winter can’t last forever
and the tiny, pale magenta buds covering everything quick and vertical in the gardens have been
harbingers of the slow, green pulse of springtime and all the promises that transitional season will hold for me. Living in a climate that boasts four full seasons is good for the eternal optimist in me.
I always find something to love no matter where I am.
No matter the grip of the season I’m swirling in.
No matter.
No matter.
I’m looking out the window as I type this and the daylight is so very hushed by the low grey of the clouds. It’s dim enough to be dawn but the clock already reads past noon.
I think some big hand reached down from the heavens and pressed a mute into the trumpet bell of daytime. We’re all slowly nodding our heads and drumming our fingers to the easy, mopey jazz grey of today. At least I am. I don’t know about you.
Then there’s the quiet chatter of the raindrops against windowpanes. The considerate and tidy wrapping of the world in crystal sphere — clean wet grace. I’m drowning in music over here. Everything keeps even time together — the squish of my galoshes in spongy ground, the gurgle of the gutters as they spit and drip their tithes and offerings all over the slate path that leads around the side of the house and down past the rose garden.
Inside, the dogs lay in their beds, pressed up against the heat registers, snoring softly.
Mister Pinkerton is without his sun pools and light spools. Instead, he curls up in the down comforter on the bed.
My hands are cold.
The rain causes delays.
There’s some primal urge in me to brew tea and coffee, to bake bread, to warm the house further for practical reasons, life sustaining reasons. But then I hear the furnace kick in once more and I settle into my formidable laze again. My soul is draped over a chaise lounge. Someone lovely has tucked me in beneath a warm quilt (beneath this dowdy sky). He or she is feeding me dark chocolate and reading some glorious tale about pioneers aloud while the kettle whistles at full heat over in the kitchen.
The rain makes me daydream.
The best thing about this weather is viewing the world in high-gloss. I’ll have no more of that eggshell, semi-matte business! Everything outside has a glorious sheen to it. Even that old cow skull in the pansy planter looks less chewed on and more beautiful than it did during the dry doldrums of yesterday.
I want to widen my mouth at the blunt ends of the twig tips and pour those smooth, gravity heavy beads into my soul. One by one. Sipping small universes. I want to drink deep. Find some inspiration. Glean a tiny fire for my mind. Quench a little thirst for my heart. I want to plant my toes in soft earth, dream of the barefoot days of summer, believe in the capable spin and tilt of this planet — the ability of the world to right itself — the need for Big Hands to steady us all and set us on our feet once more.
I do believe.
I do.
Rain is so clever.
Just Who dreamed it up, anyway?
Drink up drink up.
It doesn’t fall just for the trees and flowers, you know?
Avec parapluie,
Jillian