A soft rain falls in the morning gray. I’ve been looking forward to this. Yesterday, in anticipation of a rainy day, I bought a large can of whole, peeled tomatoes, some tomato paste, a box of pasta, some pancetta and two packages of meat, along with a long, thin French baguette. This afternoon I’ll slow simmer a thick and hearty sauce using carrots and celery I bought from the weekend farmers’ market.
Today, I don’t have to try to fit it all in. I won’t be going for a run. I won’t be walking the Embarcadero or Marina Green. There is no need for efficiency, no need to figure out an order to the day: run first then eat lunch? wait till it warms up? when and where to sit and read? Today, my world shrinks to the size of my apartment. I like how cozy and manageable that feels. The sky, drained of all its color amplifies the other senses. I’ll listen to the quiet patter. I’ll smell and taste the brightness of honey lemon tea. I’ll feel the snug fit at the corner of the sofa.
I used to curse the rain. Now, I see it as a welcomed change of pace, a good excuse to stay in. It is the guardrails and rules that keep me honest in this wild landscape of unending sunshine. They say music lives in the space between the notes. Today’s rain feels like the space between the notes. It’s the rest that allows for full and deep resonance. It’s the room where the last notes of contemplation and expression reverberate, echo, and eventually fade. It’s the counterbalance, the muting, the quiet of the ocean deep, the charcoal pit beneath the glowing fire in the campside dark.
Setting aside the poetics of this rainy morning, it’s strange to feel this sense of relief from my usual obligations to make the most of a pleasantly sunny day. There are times that I almost resent it when the forecast calls for rain and it doesn’t happen. I begin to feel like I had planned for a nice, quite day inside, but because the sun is out, I need to adjust my plans and go frolic somewhere. It’s as if my daily job has been to be outside in the world of flowers, dogs, lapping waves, and people, and I’m aching for a day off.
This also feels instructional on how to love – how to transition from butterflies and madness to something more balanced and sustainable: slowly, deliberately, and with the full spectrum of emotions – intensity, longing, tenderness, and absence. It reminds me of those opening lines to an Andrea Gibson poem, “The Year of No Grudges, or Instead of Writing a Furious Text, I Try a Poem.” Lines that I’ve quoted before:
I know most people try hard
to do good and find out too late
they should have tried softer.
The morning rain reminds me that some days it feels good to try softer.