A line from a popular ’70’s song ran: “Rainy days and Mondays always get me down.” People tend to sulk on rainy days or they get depressed. The media guys slink around like it’s somehow their fault the kids can’t go to the park (or wherever kids go these days who don’t have a play date).
I don’t care what day of the week it is; I love rainy days. I love watching the raindrops punctuating the deck, the mist surrounding the trees standing sentinel in the back yard, the dark feathers of the Titmice and the Chickadees as they shake themselves off and hop onto the feeders and calling: “Peter, peter, peter….,” “Chicka-dee-dee-dee….”
There is something comforting watching rainwater stream over the driveway to collect at the feet of a dry pine. It gratifies me to see a gray squirrel lean over a puddle to slake its thirst. The early morning dog walkers stroll down the street with their rainbow umbrellas while their pets sniff newly moistened grasses.
My fairy garden, a small collection of Bleeding Heart, Lily of the Valley and Mayapple, explode from their winter hibernation. I can hear them singing as they reach out to the greening earth. They are at their best in the rain—all wet and full of sequins; it is their finest hour.
A rainy day comforts me too. During a recent dry “soul spell,” I opened the door to the deck one morning to one of the rainiest, windiest days we had had in months. The breeze was clean and cold and full of energy. The rain pattered into the dining room as if inviting itself in for breakfast. I stood there for a long time, soaking it in and feeling it seep into the dry cracks of my spirit. From the looks of it, I could tell the rain would continue for hours. Without another thought, I picked up the telephone and canceled my plans for the day. Then, instead of sliding the glass door closed to keep the rain from sprinkling inside, I piled towels on the floor and left it open to allow the wind and rain to join me in spontaneous solitude. I spent the entire day in the embrace of every hour, and was baptized by the rain into a new and steady wholeness. I watched the sky turn from steel to ash-white to marbled gray.
Finally, to the last strains of Marlene Small’s honest voice singing, “Holy, Holy, Holy,” the clouds broke and the sun streamed through to bring its own benediction. It was one of those unexpected gifts you get when you least expect and most need them.
It was just another rainy day. Just another amazing miracle.