In this season of sweltering days, when summer rains offer welcome relief, I invite you to use this blog post to tell me (and others who are reading this post) about your relationship with rain.
The invitation is extended with a few ideas in mind:
- to gift yourself a few late-summer moments of slowing down and reflecting
- to counter the weight of uncertainty and instability so many are feeling
- to enter into a space created for conversation and connection
- to share and read because doing so opens a door to nourishment and reciprocity
For me, noticing and documenting has been, and is, a lifeline – a relationship with the sacred, a connection to gratitude, a way to come home to myself.
❦
As Asha and I walked in a recent downpour, I wasn’t thinking about my experiences with mudslides and flooding, power outages and candles, but rather about the green umbrella of my childhood.
From third through seventh grade I carried it with me everywhere during the monsoons in the foothills of the Himalaya. I knew it would shower or pour or storm every day, sometimes all day. I didn’t want to arrive at school (or anywhere else) soaking wet with no option to change into dry clothes (or shoes). Although I often got damp, or wet, despite my umbrella, my goal was to stay dry.
On the day of this downpour, Asha and I had set out under blue skies and white clouds, so I hadn’t prepared for the possibility of rain. I clipped Asha’s leash onto her collar in case it thundered and then surrendered to the rain, enjoying the sounds of drops on leaves and feeling a freedom in getting wet.
So now … would you tell me (and others) about your relationship with rain?
Photo credit: Suzanne Artemieff
Summer rain has always felt like a welcome friend. It stirs up a sense of tranquility, coziness, forced relaxation even if I am busy with cognitive work.
The sound of rain. The smell of rain. The way colors change when they’re wet, and how they look different in the dimmer light of a cloud-covered sky.
Walking and running in the rain evoke a different energy, one of vibrancy and joy.
Every single sense comes alive.
What beautiful sensory descriptions, Sandy.
I would add how the world looks clearer and crisper after the rain, as though the rain had wiped away the dust.
Where I live, Denver, CO, is surprisingly dry. The city is on the high plains and most of the westward moisture ends up in the mountains. It rarely makes it here.
So rain, especially, the good soaking type of rain is rare and always a delight for me.
And I imagine a delight for all the plants and creatures living around me.
Do you find yourself longing for rain, Judy? And does it only rain during specific seasons?
I’m almost always longing for rain or snow especially after we’ve had long, hot spells of weather. What’s interesting is my family intentionally moved to Colorado because we were so tired of the endless grey sunless days we experienced in Chicago.
A friend who lived in Arizona once told me how he loved cloudy, rainy days and I told him I couldn’t understand how anyone would feel that way. Now I very much understand why he felt that way.
Rain has become the favorite topic for weather predictors in W. Pa. since August began altho I can not say that I see rain becoming any more a “favorite” mentioned just to please the audiences! My quickest response to our unexpected “treat” this August is to be grateful it keeps me indoors rather than out weeding in our predictable summer heat. Does my response to this heavy on and off rain indicate that I am getting too old to get a usual day’s yard work done or is it a gift allowing me to take a daily break? Well, either way, I can’t “brake” change in myself or the weather so I think I’ll just chuckle at your invitation to share smiles as those raindrops keep falling on my head and I start singing along with you, Asha, and others who LOVE your pictures of the woods and watery creek !
Maybe your response is both, Nancie! And for what it’s worth, weeding in summer humidity is not high on my list of fun things to do.
Rain for me, always will be monsoon. The fresh clean smell of Bombay after the first huge downpours. The immediate cooling of the concrete city. And then the visits to the National Park (just outside Bombay) where the streams would be full and I’d wander off on my own to play with rocks and sticks and water.
I’m also imagining eager anticipation of those first downpours.
raindrop haiku
gray-sky kisses fall
earth welcomes each tenderness —
gratitude shimmers green
Raindrops as kisses. Thank you, Adel.
Rain is best after it has fallen. The Leaves, Mosses, Stones, Flowers all Shine with a renewed Life. The Stream runs and leaps joyfully, having been replenished. There is also a hush about the Forest that is not present in the dryness. A Renewal, a Refresh, an Affirmation …. Thank You Rain for having come, we now revel in your passing.
Ah, how our more-than-human kin respond to rain. Thank you.
I’ve noticed that the older I get, the more my own waters seem to be in flow with those of the earth. There is a semblance of seasonality to my tears that may very well be a reflection of the annual cycle of precipitation:
there are tears of bliss, joy and gratitude like the playful, dancing snowflakes (frozen rain) of winter;
tears of reverence and awe akin to the earth-awakening and life-bringing rains of spring;
volatile and/or nourishing tears being the essence of dual-natured summer storms, simultaneously possessing rage and destruction alongside motherly nurture and loving care;
and sweet tears of release, of relief-and-grief, and of peaceful yielding as autumn showers announce the great turning, the letting go, the moving toward darkness, stillness, respite, and I dare say: possibility.