The world is mud-lucious and puddle-wonderful. ~e.e. cummings
…he sought the privacy of rain, the one time no one was likely to be out and he was left to the intimacy of drops touching every leaf and tree in the woods and the easy muttering of drip and runoff… ~Robert Morgan from “Working in the Rain”
There is plenty of muttering, both private and public, since the rain started yesterday. And not all of it is from dripping and runoff into puddles. Anytime a holiday weekend is predicted to be rained out, plenty of people mutter too.
I’m celebrating as it has been weeks — no, months — since we have had a decent rain and everything, including me, has been far too tinder-dry.
Rain is what makes this part of the world special, but like Camelot, most would prefer it never fall till after sundown. To them we live not in a more congenial spot — than Camelot.
I may be an oddity, though somewhat typical of northwest-born natives. I celebrate rain whenever it comes, whether before sundown or after sunrise, as I grew up working outside in the intimacy of a drenching shower. Yet rain, this falling weather, gives me an excuse to stay indoors to putter around instead of mutter.
He could not resist the long ritual, the companionship and freedom of falling weather, or even the cold drenching, the heavy soak and chill of clothes and sobbing of fingers and sacrifice of shoes that earned a baking by the fire and washed fatigue after the wandering and loneliness in the country of rain. ~Robert Morgan, conclusion of “Working in the Rain”
It rained all weekend, but today the peaked roofs are as dusty and warm as the backs of old donkeys tied in the sun. So much alike are our houses, our lives. Under every eave— leaf, cobweb, and feather; and for each front yard one sentimental maple, who after a shower has passed, weeps into her shadow for hours. ~Ted Kooser “A Monday in May”
I went to bed and woke in the middle of the night thinking I heard someone cry, thinking I myself was weeping, and I felt my face and it was dry. Then I looked at the window and thought: Why, yes, it’s just the rain, the rain, always the rain, and turned over, sadder still, and fumbled about for my dripping sleep and tried to slip it back on. ~Ray Bradbury
After weeks of dry weather and only an occasional shower, it was relief to wake to the pattering and dripping, an old familiar friend returned in the dark of night.
Weeping clouds and misty eyes are not always from sadness. They can shed sweet tears, wistful wondrous full-to-the-brim tears.
This is how it was as I slipped a dripping sleep back on, lulled by the rhythm of the drops. This is how it is this morning capturing each one where it landed before it disappears forever.