The rains are here this morning. Somehow this is perfect. There is a certain urgency I have in spring when the sun emerges and the weather is warm enough to just sit in that sun and read a book. There is something inside that scolds me if I’m not taking advantage of as much of that liquid gold as possible, and I spend my days teetering between dutiful and lovely sun-soaking and intense springtime sunburn.
We’ve had a good run of weather recently. Enough sun that I’ve been pushed by that inner urge more often that not. Shoved out the door as early as possible, shoved back in as I feel my face begin to pucker. I’ve been changing clothes a dozen times a day, chilled to the bone in the seemingly air conditioned house, morphing to shorts and a T on the sweltering deck, and carrying a sweatshirt all around the acreage with me, to be donned when the breeze outstrips the sun and the goosebumps erupt. Wardrobe whiplash, all day long.
I love being outside and resting in the beauty of spring. I love that drive towards the sun, human phototropism. But also, a little rest from that rest isn’t such a bad thing. I woke up this morning to gloom and mist, and the promise of the rains to come, and all I could think is how there were no distractions from what I wanted to do with the day. Nothing begging me to balance my exposure, to soak up as much as I could before heading back in to let the skin cool. No office accoutrements toted out and back in like a rotisserie. No clothing tugs-o-war. Just me, writing, reading, hanging out with my kids whenever they are available for said hanging out. No changing to shorts when the breeze wanes, and fighting on the sweatshirt through goosebumps when it kicks back up. Just me, inside, listening to the rain. I’m OK with that.
It’s not a steady rain, but more of an in and out striation of cloud density, pattering heavily for a while, then dying down to a gentle shush in the background. Moments later, its own urgency begins again, and the roof reverberates with the soul of the rain. Those breaks are precious, for they give my senses a moment to recuperate, so that when things get more dire again, I notice; I look out the window–again–and smile—once again.
For no matter what is happening out there, from the slow changing of the seasons, to the momentary pulsing of the rain, I have a tendency to go numb, and stop noticing the wonder of whatever is here right now. The ins and outs of today’s rains bring me back and back again, mercifully keeping my attention, with nothing more than the space of a sound.
Panning out a little, the gloom of today, possibly of the next couple of days, offer that same break on a scale just one notch bigger, and will help me to see this afternoon’s sun, and Thursday’s sun, with new, grateful eyes.
And once again I am reminded: I am a child of the seasons. The seasons of the year. The seasons of the days. The seasons of this capricious rain out my window.
For the eager: The moles are still digging. Their Grand Poobah lay atop the leaf-litter, desiccating lawnside, a warning of the consequences of their actions, but still they dig. Last time I moved the traps—empty, if you must know—one of them was sprung, but with nary a fluff of moleskin attached. They’re taunting me, and I don’t appreciate it.
And the mower? Well, I’ve got those new belts, and one of these days, the hubby and I will wrestle them onto the grumpy 510, see if she won’t agree to play nicely. One of these days soon, I’d imagine, as the intermittent rains soak in slowly and coax the lawn to life.
If you need me, I’ll be enjoying a little guilt-free indoor time—and likely heading out for at least a short walk in my raincoat. I hear it’s supposed to hit 70 this afternoon, once the clouds move off some and the sun re-emerges. Sounds like a steamer. I doubt I’ll make it through the day without at least a few changes of clothes.
To the seasons,