It’s supposed to be somewhere around a million degrees here the rest of this week. And while the rest of the country seems to be getting at least a few rain showers, if not pouring tropical storm rain, our little patch of Michigan repeatedly gets missed.
I have been asking the weathermen, the internet, and God for rain for the past two weeks.
Of course we got some drizzle on Sunday morning causing our birthday party to be held indoors. Of course.
Anyway, I didn’t always appreciate rain. And neither did my Sluiter Nation Recruit who is here today.
To the internet, she is Law Momma and she writes the blog, Spilled Milk and Other Atrocities.
I wish I could tell you how she and I met. But I don’t remember. I just know that we chatted on twitter and because she was always so flipping supportive, I followed her home to her blog one day.
And OH. MY. WORD.
She might be a lawyer, but she has a gorgeous way with words.
Girlfriend can write.
Also? Every time I see a picture of her son, J, I have to do a double take. He looks that much like Eddie.
Trust me. Read on. You will love her too.
As a little girl, I hated the rain. I hated when I would wake in the morning to the rumble of an AM thunderstorm, or the dreary half-light of an overcast day. I despised wearing a raincoat and rain boots, and loathed the soak of the earth rising up and over the tops of my shoes. I hated how my pants always seemed to dip down and in to every puddle they saw, leaving a cold ring around the lower side of my ankle.
I just hated rainy days.
Is it any wonder, though? I was taught the “Rain, Rain, Go Away” song. I was a fan of Annie’s heartfelt “Tomorrow” and her promise that the sun would, in fact, come out then. I believed that it was the fault of the downpour that the poor little spider couldn’t freaking get to where he wanted to go when he wanted to go there.
Rain was bad.
Rain was the opposite of awesome.
Rain was… not fun.
I looked forward to the aftermath, sure. The puddles and the mud pies, the sweet, hot smell of steam rising off the asphalt, the rainbow splitting through the clouds in a bursting smile of color. I couldn’t appreciate the rainstorm, but I could live with what it brought out in the world around me.
As I’ve grown older, my perspective has shifted. I’ve learned to see the beauty in a slowly rolling cloud. I’ve embraced the tinkling tap of raindrops against my windows and the swishing shush and slide of my windshield wipers. The older I get, the more I appreciate the chance to slow down, to drive with my hazard lights on, to curl up on a sofa and watch the plants in my yard reach hungrily toward the sky. The puddles and the mud pies, the happy release of heat from the scorched earth… yes, that’s all still sweetly special, especially as my own son learns to embrace the beauty after the rain.
But now I can see the beauty in the rain itself… the perfect precision of drops beading against my skin… the startling sincerity of a world stripped bare of the brash, blinding sun. I have learned to let myself drink in the entirety of life: the sweeping, sunlit days AND the small, shadowed moments. I have learned to stand still, drinking in the world around me for all that is… perfect in its imperfections, beautiful in its bashful blemishes.
In my youth, the rain was something to wish away… like the months until Christmas, or the days until your best friend returned from summer vacations. Rain, like time, was expendable… undesirable and un-welcomed. But now, when I stop to watch the slope of a frown creasing my son’s face as he silently wills the rain to leave? Now I realize that every moment is precious. Even the rainiest of days.