No doubt, the world can be divided into groups regarding a few issues. For example, there are the cat lovers, as opposed to the dog lovers; and while some people love hot weather, their opposites do not. In addition, there are also the rain lovers and those who do not love rain.
I am a rain lover.
I am not exactly sure when I first realized that I loved rain, but I believe that it was at camp, because it was at camp that I learned to love much about nature. Even as young children, the kids at my camp slept in cabins that hardly had exterior walls. At least 2/3 of the walls were screened, and it was almost as though we were sleeping on the ground.
The cabins at my camp had no electricity, no bathrooms, and had very little else to keep nature away. On cooler nights, the evening’s dampness would filter through the screen and swallow me, regardless of how deeply I dug into my sleeping bag. On those nights, there was a cool, damp feeling that I loved–or perhaps it was the snuggling that I loved more. Probably, I just loved both.
When the night grew very late, I would often hear small animals picking through the leaves outside the cabin’s walls. It always seemed that whippoorwills and owls perched no more than 5 feet from my bed, and I always felt as though I was the only one in camp who was still awake and hearing the night sounds of nature. It was a feeling of being alone and yet, not lonely. That phrase probably summarizes my life:
My life has been marked by a feeling of being alone and yet, not lonely. Feeling about the rain is one of those experiences when I am very much alone, and I still do not feel any loneliness.
At my camp, the cabins had galvanized metal roofs–or tin roofs. I loved to hear the rain, tapping the top of the tin roof, and then sliding on down.
We did a lot of neat things at camp, but it is no exaggeration for me to say that my very favorite camp times involved listening to the rain filtering through the trees and then peppering the roof, before ultimately piercing through the crust of leaves on the ground, rustling them and causing them to crackle.
Finally, there is no smell anywhere that is any better than that of freshly falling rain–just before the water washes the earth, the grass, and the dust scents away.
In my bedroom now, my bed is immediately next to a window that I frequently open to allow nature to come inside. Every time it rains, I pull the glass back and listen–and I feel.
A couple of weeks ago, I wrote a post, naming all of the things that would happen, if I were filled with magic. Following is one of the things that I said:
If I were filled with magic,
I would have everyone hear the rain tap on their tin roofs–and feel,
And no one’s roof would leak.
If I Were Filled with Magic Here
When a person is able to look through about 55 to 60 years of living and single out an experience that has always filled them with joy and an immense feeling of being alive, they have identified something central to what makes them who they are.
The Rain is Central to Who I Am.
Copyright Jacki Kellum November 4, 2015
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Singin’ in the Rain.”