Typically, I hate rain.
It makes the sky look like an iron shell threatening to crash down on me at any moment.
It also makes my wavy hair frizz in a profoundly unflattering manner. In darker moments, I wonder if God isn't weeping.
Yes, it can get that gloomy sometimes.
But there was good rain. And I'm not talking about the rain that the terminally cheerful among us proclaim "yes, but we need it, think of the crops!" I live in a fairly urban area--there are no crops that I can rally, and even if there were, the eco-system does not need me to cheer it on. It's far bigger than I, and one of the very few things I will stubbornly admit is out of my control.
But, I remember warm summer rain from when I was a kid. When as a child one could go out and run in it, let it soak your skin, and yes laugh. I remember the beauty of watching the water collect and braid down sewer drains, the iridescent rainbows made from gasoline leaks on the roads. The joyful splash of a gigantic puddle. We greeted the rain with a joyful, lusty response, we met it head on, and challenged it.
So maybe it isn't just the rain. It's our learned mature, adult fear and aversion to it. As adults we cower from it. Hide beneath our umbrellas, run from our cars to shelter as quickly as possible.
We would certainly not linger in it, let it fall on our face, or leap like a half crazed lunatic into a giant puddle.
In my case, any and all observers of this behavior would simply nod in a collective affirmation of a long presumed opinion: "She is just odd."
But what would they really see-- defiance, a pursuit of joy, and wonder?
And would I be brave enough to be that odd, to find that long lost kid who just didn't care. Instead of the adult who has long since put away notions of embracing happiness wherever and whenever one finds it.
Even if it's just warm, soft drops of water on one's face.