I enjoy watching the fog roll in. I love falling asleep to the percussive music of rain on the roof. My soul sings in a thunderstorm.
It’s genetic, apparently. My kids are fall-winter/mist-and-rain lovers, just like their mum.
All things in balance. I’m not weather extremist. I’m a devoted fan of the succession of seasons – I love them all – but I have a favorite. Fall. I worship the sun, as well as the moon. I’m as quick to see fairies in the light-dappled meadow as in the mysterious, fog-shrouded wood. I like chocolate and caramel toppings, both… I just like caramel better.
Those of us who prefer our skies overcast can easily articulate the “why” of it. We wilt in the heat; we rouse to action in the cold. We feel over-exposed under bright, cloudless heavens, we feel safe and cozy under a blanket of gray. Too much sunshine oppresses our spirits; downpours free us from Sol’s golden chains.
And even so, the elation that took me today, and filled me, and banished every negative thought, every discontented, impatient, unhappy feeling… it’s inexplicable. We’ve had a run of nice days, lately (meaning seasonally brisk, windy, bracing). I’ve been enjoying them immensely, but my pleasure wasn’t powerful enough to erase the to-do list, lift the weight of worry from my heart, or dispel the doubts and fears that have been clinging to my thoughts.
Today, the clouds gathered. The cold cut. The wind stirred the yellow leaves and ever-green oak branches. The rain fell.
And, suddenly, all was right with the world. I felt good in my body. I felt clear in my mind. My heart was light as it’s been since… since I can’t remember when.
Some might say the explanation is simple: a simple, deep-seated association with a highly enjoyable life-experience from my past. The fragrance of gardenia can make one person swoon with delight and another gag in revulsion if the former associates the scent with a first, sweet kiss and the latter with an abusive relation. Perhaps the unbridled happiness that swept over me this morning was no more than a childhood sense-memory?
Perhaps not. Memories aren’t to be trusted, I know, but mine surely don’t support the idea that I love rain because it happened to be falling on a ‘specially wonderful day. It was the rain that made a day special. Always and still, it’s the dark clouds and weeping skies themselves that fill my soul with light and laughter.