It’s a quarter after three in the morning as I write this, so I’ll probably post this in a few more hours. I’m exhausted, as per usual, but I find myself having trouble falling asleep.
Outside and above, I can hear the rain pattering steadily against the building. It has been like this most of the day, with a brief peek of daylight around 10PM because I live in Alaska and the sun is a psychopath.
The rain is a good thing. The Funny River wildfire has consumed close to 200,000 acres so far and anything that helps the brave men and women fighting it is welcome at this point. The rain is a helpful thing.
Truth be told, I’ve always liked the rain. Sunny days are good and golden. Snowy days can be bright but cold. Cloudy days are gloomy and foggy days are somber but rainy days are clean. They get the dirt off your car and breathe life into the flora. It’s like a little reset button to freshen things up. Some places rain a lot, maybe even too much. I lived in Seattle for a time. I’ve been to England. Even so, the concept is the same: rain is a clean thing. Rain is a healing thing.
I tend to be more introspective on rainy days. Not creatively, mind you, which struck me as weird. I just tend to think a lot more about life. About myself. I’m not as critical of myself on rainy days, which also strikes me as weird. Instead, I’m able to remove me from myself and accept things. I see where I am at life. I tend to have a better grasp of who I am, what I want to be, to do, to turn my life into.
I love those days you can curl up somewhere with a glass of hot chocolate or what-have-you and look out the window at the street or the neighborhood or the city. The world is so much clearer on rainy days. The people around me are in focus. I consider my relationships with people and my relationship with myself. On rainy days, I don’t judge. I take account and accept. I do this because rain is a thinking thing.
There is something liberating about it. I remember being a kid and going outside while it was pouring, running around gleefully. It was cold. It made the world smell incredible. I remember warm rain in Montana and Texas. I remember stepping out as a teenager and an adult. I recall moonsooning rain in Venice, Italy, sweeping sideways by the will of winds so strong they broke my umbrella. It was frightening; I felt I was in battle and that feeling was invigorating.
There is something about brushing wet hair back from your face while your clothes stick heavily to your frame. Something about the soft drops massaging your skin as you close your eyes and tilt your head back to the skies. Something about pulling someone close to you, one arm around their waist, one hand at their neck and jawline, holding them steady while passion pulses between the lips of both people, the clouds weeping happily upon you.
Rain is a romantic thing.
That pitter-patter. That ratatatatat. The thrum of the window pane and the weather vane and the thud thud thud against the porch. The steadiness of it. The reliability.
I have taken much more security and comfort from the sound of falling rain than I ever have from the stillness of night. The rooftop music it makes is a far more pleasant sound than any windchimes I have ever heard. I don’t need bird songs. I don’t need quiet. I only need to lay here and listen to the taptaptaptaptap and I know I’ll soon be asleep.
After all, rain is a soothing, beautiful thing.