I love when it rains. I delight in how the sky begins to darken and the air gets thick and the ways you can feel it on your skin even before a single drop ever touches the ground. I love the atmosphere of it all. The anticipation, the knowing. Most of all, I love the smell. Not only does it smell better than even puppy’s breath, Petrichor (a pleasant smell that frequently accompanies the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather) is simply a magnificent word to say.
And yet, my body does not. At all. It reviles inclement weather. Inside this body of mine I have become as good as or better of a forecaster than any weather person on television. I can tell you that a storm will be here three days ahead of time. I wake up in the middle of the night with my left leg ice cold and I know that the barometer has shifted. I am like one of those old timers that families would gather around, to hear stories from days gone by. A Pa Pa with his cane and tin horn up to his ear, rocking in the chair on the porch hollerin’ “Storm’s a brewin’!” Kids will ask “Tell us about that time you went to get beans out of the cupboard Pa Pa” and I’ll regale the saga of dislocating ribs from picking up a can.
Yet still, I want the rain. I want the snow. We neeeeeeeeed it so much. Pine View, The Great Salt Lake, even rivers in Europe are drying up. I think of this drought so often and the perils for us all that it has turned into an internal pleading. Possibly the closest I get to prayer.
What all this mean is, I will GLADLY be in misery for the glory or precipitation. My tears will just raise the humidity a little.
loosestgirlintown 