(Toledo, OH) I woke to the sound of raindrops on my roof early this morning, and unlike many people, the realization that rain was in the forecast did not bring me down.
Oh, I enjoy a sunny day as well as any beach bum, and I admit that I am as chagrined as anyone else when an outdoor event I planned to attend is rained out.
But I must also admit that I have a secret fondness for days in which the rain never lets up.
I am one of those neurotically-driven people for whom "sunshine" means that I should be outdoors: working in the garden, taking the dogs for a walk, or painting my picket fence. Any outdoor activity means that I am being productive and fending off those inner voices that push me.
A rainy day, though, is like my ticket to slackery. The reading of books, watching of videos, or listening to Andres Segovia becomes "acceptable" when the skies open up, and I no longer feel compelled to be productive.
The air on a rainy day smells different than any other time, and I enjoyed allowing some rain to wash over my face as I waited for my dogs to finish their trips to the backyard about 4:00. I must have looked like a lunatic, standing in the rain on my leaf-strewn lawn, but there is something primordial and universal about letting raindrops splash over you.
As I write these words I am sitting near an open window listening to the steady fall of rain on my driveway this evening. I did not get a lot accomplished today, but the cool breeze coming from the west chases away any lingering guilt at being a bit lazy on a Friday afternoon.