I woke up this morning to the patter of rain on the windows. And I smiled. I jump out of bed and grab my red velour housecoat to wrap the coziness around me. Then I open the door, close my eyes and breathe in the smell of pine forest taking bath. It smells like home. But the rain is not the rain of home. The raindrops are bigger and they feel like plops of water running off a gutter rather than actual raindrops. Not the torrential downpour of Vietnam or Taiwan but big, fat drops that soak into the parched soil of the Sierra Nevada Mountains and drip drops that travel down my face. The air is cooler. Fresher. And the day is filled with possibility.
I have come to the conclusion that rain means very different things in different places. The rate of suicide and depression goes up exponentially in places like Vancouver, where the gray days of living in a temperate rainforest overwhelm people who have not embraced it. This is not so for me. A rainy day is an excuse to slow down. It is the permission to make a pot of tea and crawl back into bed to digest a book in its entirety. Or open the computer and write. There is no pressure to seize the day. To get out and enjoy the sun while it’s still around.
Today I have made the decision to sit down in my father’s spot, beside the cabin window overlooking the lake and more recently Rush Creek. To listen to the rain hit the leaves of the quaking alder. The surface of Rush Creek. The deck. Interestingly enough the ducks have disappeared. It’s like they don’t quite know what to do with the unfamiliarity of rain in the middle of summer. They are not like Vancouver ducks who grasp the opportunity to do acrobatics in the ponds and party in the puddles.
I have brought my boots to the cabin this year. I’m an excited to venture out into the rain. To remove the layer of dust that coats everything within its reach. The deer calmly venture out when everyone else is hunkering down in cabins. In trailers. In tents. Their dainty way of being that reminds me so much of my mother.
The rain comes out in waves. Like someone occasionally takes the opportunity to wring out the clouds. Then there is a lull. Just a light tapping and drips from the green metal roof. Some of the braver birds have ventured out and are quite engaged in a conversation about the weather. The chipmunks are not to be deterred. They dart out and about in the same way that they do on sunny days. Then burgeoning population of cottontail rabbits are encouraged by the quiet.
Even the lake is quiet. The fishermen have gone back to bed. There is no parade of kayaks and paddleboards carrying dogs, chairs, and people too afraid to stand up, as they venture down Rush Creek on the “jungle cruise”. Not actually a jungle but the creek does narrow enough to have inspired the name way back in childhood. Today no stories of past relationships, observations on cabins or the people in them waft down the waterway with them. Just silence. And rain.
Dandelion Dreams is the section of my blog devoted to myself as a writer. The name is inspired by my favourite piece of art by David Klassen. It was previously known as Sunday’s Child. Too many of us were born on a Sunday.