I have been watching, day after day, from the sealed up eighth floor of a large building, rain fall. Grey, drenching, sheeting, swirling, constant, raining, rain. And I have been watching it with absolute, unmitigated joy. I have watched my beloved Minnehaha Creek try vainly to flood under it. I have watched wet ducks and geese live unperturbed in it. I have watched it gloss the whole world. And all along I have rejoiced. I have loved every second of the rain.
Every half hour, though, some new person has come into my room and complained about the rain, complained like we are all naturally in on this suffering against the rain's assault.
Usually I defend the rain once. The complainer usually trots out
farmers, danger, inconvenience, and floods. I then just wait for them to
be finished so I can go back to watching the rain fall and fall and
fall into the creek and the parking lots and the distant gray forever.
Today, for the first time in awhile, I had to leave my rain watching
aerie and muck about in the wide world. The rain fell and blew onto me.
As I drove, my car vainly strove to wipe its eyes fast enough for me to
see. On foot I ran across parking lots. I dashed between overhangs. I
was splashed by gusting winds.
I could start to see where all these complaints were coming from. This
was the rain they were talking about. I could, I suppose, if I had to,
complain about this rain.
But I didn't have to. And I didn't want to. And I won't. This is my 8th
floor rain, dear to my heart. I remembered. I looked into the dark sky.
I relaxed. I walked wide open, and I got wet. Very wet. And I let it