From Spring, 2011…
Why, when I need to find my center, do I wait for the rain? Where others relax under the glow of a warm summer’s day, I retreat to a slightly colder place. Finding happiness and warmth on a rainy day must…
What is it about the rain? Is it the gentle pounding of countless drops, relentlessly pounding a roof? The pitter-patter that will start as a few random, dispersed taps and slowly build in frequency and volume into a continuous reverberation, only to give way to a gentle pecking finally followed by silence.
That noise. The sound of rain on a roof; on the ground; in the trees; on a jacket; in a puddle; on the sea; on my head – in my head. The sound of rain when gentle is calming, when torrential it can feel ominous, having the potential to bring fear along with it – and panic close behind. When I let the sound of rain into my head, it forces out the racing thoughts and the frantic rush of ideas. Thinking thinking thinking, rain, slow, stop, thoughts reset. I close my eyes and relax; breathe.
Is it the gray skies, filled with rolling, bloated clouds that block out the heavy, hot weight of the sun? A cold, wet blanket to shield and recover from the hot, dry rays of the burning, blinding sun.
The sun forces its weight down upon my shoulders, like the hot breath of an angry God. I may enjoy the warmth at first contact, but continuous exposure to its heat begins a slow boil in my soul. Frustration, angst, hatred and violence bubble to the surface and consume my every thought, circulating through my brain and taking turns to torment me, until at last I must retreat to shelter in failure. Failure at a typical task left unfinished or a moment spoiled; failure of will.
The rain draws me. I yearn to be pelted by its drops. I enjoy having to squint to avoid pain and temporary blindness. I wake when it stings my face, and my chest tightens and relaxes as my soles slap through fresh puddles. I transfix on rushing rivers of rainwater that run along curbs and create hissing waterfalls when several converge on a debris-clogged street drain.
The rain ended early today. With expectations of a full day of rippling puddles and the sounds of cars forcing their way through wet streets, disappointment inevitably sinks in. Frustration begins to pull at the back of my neck as my day droops into malaise. Without consistency in the weather, a consistent mood is impossible to maintain.
…Later…
Apparently the muse is sleeping today, although I sense an awakening of something, be it my muse or something else entirely – I suppose only time will tell. So is the writing of the first sentence and the continuing prose an example of irony, or is the author merely trying to force irony by writing it?
As the muse soundly sleeps on a somber spring day,
ideas bound in and out of my winter-weary mind,
mired in the mud of melting snow as the seasons slip into spring.
Oh, Muse, stay awhile. My mind has a special vacancy reserved for your ramblings. Perhaps you are put-off by my preference for my duties, no doubt?
The day is nearly done, and this is all that the muse could deliver? Disappointing, but I can excuse this exception by conjuring the soul of wit:
Brevity, my friend, is my charity.
…and Spring, 2019…
Rumble and clatter
Pitter-patter
Whip and pull
Flash and splatter
Drip drop
Ripple, run
Fill and fall
Rise and flood
Slow, quiet
Chirp and chatter
Break and beam
Steam and vapor