It is raining. It has been raining all week although at the moment I am not really perturbed by the rain; by the mud perhaps, but not the rain. In fact I had forgotten how nice it can be to walk in the rain. When I was a girl, in my teens and twenties, I loved walking in the rain. I was perhaps silly and naive, perhaps a bit of a romantic, although I'm not sure I allowed many to see that side of myself, even then. Then life became busy, filled with family and career, and I became stressed and perhaps occasionally bitter, or if not bitter, at least cynical. But cynicism always hides an edge of bitterness. I began to perhaps resent the rain, and long for sunshine, to associate sunshine with happy days and happy activities. But that grumbling wasn't really about the weather it was about my own inner unhappiness, even though I wouldn't have said I was unhappy. Stressed perhaps; I would have admitted to stress. So much easier to blame the rain, to find a scapegoat, rather than to look inward, seeking inner fissures, seeking to heal oneself. And then of course loss and grief got in the way and forced me to peer into those cracks before they consumed me. I'm sure you are tired of hearing about that by now, but it continues to surprise me how fine the line is between death and life, between grief and joy. I continue to marvel about the way growth and healing isn't so much about finding a new path but about rediscovering an old path than had become neglected and overgrown.
I hadn't planned on taking such a thoughtful turn this morning. But my thoughts after a morning walk wend their way along their own path, purling through the undergrowth of my life.
I've taken my morning walk in my home neighborhood every morning the past week. So much nicer than the apartment complex, even in the rain. Even for 2 1/2 miles in the rain. Monday it rained steadily for my entire walk, and yet I couldn't stop smiling, looking at the soft colors of the leaves, smelling the wet earth and the slightly musty smell of damp and decay mixed with another scent I can really only call clean. I couldn't stop smiling despite a few inner grumbles brought on by my own misunderstanding of the layers needed for the cold and damp. First I grew too hot, then, as I divested myself of a poorly chosen layer, I got a little wet and grew cold. Still the smiles returned, unbidden. Tuesday I was also dressed for rain, the forecast 100% chance of rain, so I once again had my raincoat, my water repellent pants over my leggings, and my trusty blunnies, but smarter layering choices underneath. However the rain kindly held off during the time of my walk, starting up again just as I was returning to my car. Tuesday I was able to take a few pictures.
I love the peacefulness of early morning walks, especially mornings after a rain. The wet earth holds a different kind of silence than drier days, the bird calls, always present, are less exuberant perhaps, but there is still that early morning sense of everything being new all over again, now with the magic of droplets clinging to the tips of flowers. I love the way the leaves gently shimmer and shake when a bird alights on a delicate branch, or the shower of droplets scattering through the air when they take flight.
I love the cool air, the way the chill hits my face, or my fingers when I pull them out of my pockets. I love the leaves, bright and colorful on the trees, a blaze of glory proclaiming a life well-lived. But I also love the fallen leaves, the carpet they make on the ground, and those solitary hangers-on, still clinging tenaciously to their branches, torn, ravaged with blight and age, under siege, determined.
I suppose it is easy to love Spring with all the new blossoms, or Summer with its warmth and exuberance, but still I love Autumn, and walking in the rain. I love the knowledge that this rain, cold and dreary as it may be refreshes and replenishes the earth beneath my feet. I walk occasionally melancholy, yet also filled with hope, secure in the knowledge that because it rains in November, there are sure to be flowers again in March. I wander on, occasionally grumbling yes, but also secure in the knowledge, or is it faith tinged with knowledge, that joy and happiness and love are always there, in the very soil of our lives. Sometimes cold and wet, oozy and uncomfortable, at other times hard and unyielding, but always full of promise. Waiting.
