This afternoon I pulled on my boots, rain pants and coat, dressed the dog in his big blue vest, and went out into the rain.
Once I read a poem about winter in Oregon. I remember this line: Winter, and the rain begins.
I want to continue to be friends with rain, as is the only reasonable thing to do here in the Pacific Northwest. It has rained every day (I believe) for two weeks--and I just made up that number. I think it has rained forever, actually, since summer ended. For the past ten days, wind has accompanied the rain, a buffeting wind that makes the rain blow under your hood and into your face. The kids played soccer through rainy gusts while umbrellas of spectators blew inside out. We were soaked to the bone, fingers numbed, mud spattered. Soccer season lasts a little too long here, I think.
Darkness arrives early, and the rain drives on through the night.
My good in-laws from Texas (who just finished a sweet ten-day stay), got a profound soaking when they were here, and they were good sports about it, though I heard Mom say with great certainty at one point after it had rained steadily at forty degrees: I HATE the rain. We built lots of fires and sat before them, steaming like tea kettles. The temperature in our house hovered around 75 or more as the woodstove chuffed out steady heat.
I didn't build a fire today, since it's just me in the house. Instead I went for a walk through the rain and my post-company blues (the kind that arrive in the sudden quiet after constant happy activity) started poking at me, trying to convince me I was lonely, not accomplishing enough, not happy enough. I should have pulled out my sword of gratitude and bravely vanquished them, but I plodded along in the rain, listening to their nasty undertones. But then the world kept surprising me: HERE! a flash of bright yellow and red as I walked over a sea of maple leaves, glistening with rain; and PAY ATTENTION! the sudden full smell of pine; and SURPRISE! tree bark the color of rich, dark leather. The world gave me a line of poetry (Mary Oliver, of course): Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life? (Find the whole poem here: The Summer Day (archived at Library of Congress).)
So I didn't work on my book today--and with dentist appointments, I might not get to work on it tomorrow either. But I went for a walk in the rain, and made the rain my friend again, and by the end of the walk I'd thrown my hood back and the dog and I were striding through the world, rain steady in our faces, and it was good.
Once I read a poem about winter in Oregon. I remember this line: Winter, and the rain begins.
I want to continue to be friends with rain, as is the only reasonable thing to do here in the Pacific Northwest. It has rained every day (I believe) for two weeks--and I just made up that number. I think it has rained forever, actually, since summer ended. For the past ten days, wind has accompanied the rain, a buffeting wind that makes the rain blow under your hood and into your face. The kids played soccer through rainy gusts while umbrellas of spectators blew inside out. We were soaked to the bone, fingers numbed, mud spattered. Soccer season lasts a little too long here, I think.
Darkness arrives early, and the rain drives on through the night.
My good in-laws from Texas (who just finished a sweet ten-day stay), got a profound soaking when they were here, and they were good sports about it, though I heard Mom say with great certainty at one point after it had rained steadily at forty degrees: I HATE the rain. We built lots of fires and sat before them, steaming like tea kettles. The temperature in our house hovered around 75 or more as the woodstove chuffed out steady heat.
I didn't build a fire today, since it's just me in the house. Instead I went for a walk through the rain and my post-company blues (the kind that arrive in the sudden quiet after constant happy activity) started poking at me, trying to convince me I was lonely, not accomplishing enough, not happy enough. I should have pulled out my sword of gratitude and bravely vanquished them, but I plodded along in the rain, listening to their nasty undertones. But then the world kept surprising me: HERE! a flash of bright yellow and red as I walked over a sea of maple leaves, glistening with rain; and PAY ATTENTION! the sudden full smell of pine; and SURPRISE! tree bark the color of rich, dark leather. The world gave me a line of poetry (Mary Oliver, of course): Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life? (Find the whole poem here: The Summer Day (archived at Library of Congress).)
So I didn't work on my book today--and with dentist appointments, I might not get to work on it tomorrow either. But I went for a walk in the rain, and made the rain my friend again, and by the end of the walk I'd thrown my hood back and the dog and I were striding through the world, rain steady in our faces, and it was good.
Comments
Let us not be very old ladies running around in the rain and spraining hips and things. Let us schedule that rain before that time.
I would LOVE to take a walk in the sunny climes where you live among the parrots and monkeys and see those dusky roads warmed by the sun. It is true that a blog entry, even a complaining one, can paint a romantic picture and so much of life is mundane--mundane tinged with wonder! Miss you. xox