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.
Yesterday, I was working in my garden, and everything was distastefully dry and parched. With my hose, I tried to water things, but I don’t believe that I was very effective; and about 3:00 this morning, it began to rain. I immediately opened my window and listened, and I listened the rest of the night. Like a blanket that washed over me and cradled me, the rain watered my soul.
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 in the very arms of nature.
The cabins at my camp had no electricity, no bathrooms, and had very little else to keep the elements away. On cooler nights, the evening’s vapors would filter through the screen and swallow me, regardless of how deeply I dug into my sleeping bag. I loved the cool, damp sensation of camp’s night air–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 everyone else in camp was asleep, and I lay awake all alone–listening to the night sounds of nature. It was a feeling of being alone and yet, not lonely.
That phrase probably summarizes my life, and that is probably why I love the rain. Rain is moody, gray, and wears a feeling of aloneness, all of its own.
At my camp, the cabins had galvanized metal roofs–or tin roofs. I loved to hear the rain, filtering through the trees and then tapping the tin roof and sliding from it one drop at a time.
The softer rains would ultimately pierce through the crust of leaves that lay on top of the ground. The leaves would rustle, crackle, and fizz.
The dust on the tree leaves outside would be moistened, and the aroma of the moistened earth would fill the air. The smell of the evergreens would be refreshed, and the woods would take on the scent of a rain potpourri that I wish I could bottle or bag.
When it rained hard at camp, the trees got involved with the ceremony and waved their arms, shook their heads, and wildly swayed. Like savages dancing around a ring, preparing for a bountiful hunt, the trees would toss spears into the air and fiercely hurl things about. A tree limb would occasionally scrape across the metal shelter, screeching as it slowly etched its way over the top.
Also when it rained hard, the drops of rain would pound the tin top, and the belting would become a roar. Torrents of water would form at the edges of the galvanized roof and would flood, like water being sloshed from a tub, down to the ground below. The river of rain water would get behind piles of leaves and branches on the ground and push them downstream.
When the rain was not pouring, I liked to put on my squeaky, new rubber boots and my cold, stiff raincoat and walk outside. I loved the way that a misting rain would form on the exposed parts of my body. When there were actual rain drops falling, I liked to feel them pat my face and then roll.
Like Mother Nature’s bathtub, rain is how the world is washed clean, and when I am in the rain, I feel that I am being cleansed, too.
In my bedroom now, my bed is immediately next to a window that I frequently open to allow nature to come inside. Every time that 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,
Everyone would hear the rain tap on their tin roofs–and feel,
And no one’s roof would leak.
I guess that about sums it up. I love the rain. It fills my soul.
©Jacki Kellum June 28, 2016