A rainy morning here. No, this is the type of rain that means real business. One drop is enough to leave you soaked. Two drops and you’re a wash out for the day. Nothing to be done but avoid it.
But what happens to those who can’t avoid it? Those who have to walk out in it day after day and bear the brunt of its force. Do they find happiness or some serene contentedness in a state of perpetual dampness?
Perhaps, they do.
I suspect the rain is really a beautiful thing for those who have eyes to see such things but for the majority it breeds a form of simmering misery. They wish for summer and reject the days we now have before us.
More is the pity.
This is what we live for. The rainy days, not just the rainy days, but those really really really rainy days when nothing makes sense and it just rains. People scurry to work or wherever they need to go, heads down umbrellas up, windshields fogging up with steam.
The weather teaches us we are alive.
I, for one, would personally miss it. Not for the stoicism it invests in us. Something more. The simple pleasure of water on your face, rain at your feet. Life giving all around you. Darkened hedges and blackened roads. Eventually sunshine will come and heat and clothes cast off, and then we will think of the rain happily.
Too late then in ways, the moment has past. The rainy damp present moment that blesses each of our winters. A blessing.