This morning I open my eyes and roll over to find I’m joined by a rainy day and the lull of its gentle conversation. As always I want to keep it to myself – I don’t want to have to share it with the mechanical goings on of the work day. I want to walk in it at my leisure and absorb its smell and energy into my body.
I want to watch it lazily from a window as it provides sustenance to the vegetation and washes the streets and sidewalks. I want to cook in the glow of the stove light while I enjoy the sound of it falling outside and the deepened, bluish/greenish atmosphere closing around like a protective hug.
I think of rainy day jobs and creative activities and the pleasure and satisfaction we find in those things because the rainy day has given us an excuse to stay in and do them. I think of certain past lovers and how we dreamt of rainy days together, lolling about, talking, sipping tea, reading the paper and those other things lovers do so well together.
There’s something in a rainy day that slows my wheels a notch – and as I head out the door this morning I’m wishing I could have this rainy day for my very own. Or better perhaps – to share with someone else.