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It's a Liquid Sunshine Day!
Jan. 4th, 2008 09:26 amThe wind was shoving the rain almost in a horizontal direction. Messy. Cold. Wet. Grey. I LOVED it. Sitting at a stop sign, the van was rocked back and forth; without the storm I would have thought "earthquake". Again, I LOVED it!
I know this can cause a lot of problems for people and I'm sorry for that . . . but still I LOVE it. All that's missing is thunder and lightening.
Lunch will be hot soup from a nearby restaurant, in the 6th floor lunch room, sitting next to the wall of windows enjoying nature's show.
I know this can cause a lot of problems for people and I'm sorry for that . . . but still I LOVE it. All that's missing is thunder and lightening.
Lunch will be hot soup from a nearby restaurant, in the 6th floor lunch room, sitting next to the wall of windows enjoying nature's show.
Approaching Storm
Oct. 11th, 2007 01:47 pmIt rained the night before last. I sat outside in the backyard. My head, in contact with the umbrella, experienced a steady tapping pressure; the sensation pushed though my body reaching my toes. The earthen smells, as deep and rich as a sniff of real vanilla or leavened bread baking, wrapped around me. Sometimes I closed my eyes; sharing full focus with the other senses.
Eyes opened; the concert of movement filled me up. Drops hit the concrete, the mud, the redwood planter, a plastic table, the large leaves of the fig tree; each contact required its own choreography. A catch and release predetermined by gravity, weight, speed, wind. It could all be translated into numbers; symbols explaining the why and how of it, and in the math there would be beauty, but not a type I can fully appreciate. I need the physical, the reality of wet and cold, the silence between the drops, a comfortable, familiar place to hang my id, ego and super ego. A place all three agree is good.
I watched the weather forecast this morning, another storm is coming in. The predicted amount, temperature, wind speed and duration were mapped and graphed. I translated that information into anticipated sights, smells, tastes, textures, sounds. While a sad imitation of what is to come, it still made me happy. The sky is grey now, the wind is picking up. I have my coat and umbrella by the back door ready for my exit. Once again I will be audience and performer, observer and participant, in the dance of water and wind.
Eyes opened; the concert of movement filled me up. Drops hit the concrete, the mud, the redwood planter, a plastic table, the large leaves of the fig tree; each contact required its own choreography. A catch and release predetermined by gravity, weight, speed, wind. It could all be translated into numbers; symbols explaining the why and how of it, and in the math there would be beauty, but not a type I can fully appreciate. I need the physical, the reality of wet and cold, the silence between the drops, a comfortable, familiar place to hang my id, ego and super ego. A place all three agree is good.
I watched the weather forecast this morning, another storm is coming in. The predicted amount, temperature, wind speed and duration were mapped and graphed. I translated that information into anticipated sights, smells, tastes, textures, sounds. While a sad imitation of what is to come, it still made me happy. The sky is grey now, the wind is picking up. I have my coat and umbrella by the back door ready for my exit. Once again I will be audience and performer, observer and participant, in the dance of water and wind.
What are ya’ll doing tonight?
It's storming!
Jan. 18th, 2006 08:01 amI love hearing the rain splat in big, fast drops. The wind for short bursts, pushing it sideways. It's best enjoyed sitting in the warm office, looking out. There's a very delicate "tink, tink, tink" sound from the kitchen when the rain hits the metal on the roof and the sound vibrates down and is amplified by the exhaust hood over the stove. I adore rain, even when I have to be out in it - exasperatingly wet, but still appreciated.
Sometimes I take a few minutes to sit in the car when it's raining, listening. It takes me back to my midwest youth and all the rainy days I'd go sit in the hayloft. Rhythmic tip tapping on the galvanized tin roof just above my head. Sometimes, when the loft was almost full of hay, I would lay down and the tin would be less than a foot away from my face. It was too dark to read. I'd lay there, thinking the deep thoughts of the young, often slipping into a light sleep. Sometimes,instead of hay there was alfalfa, so sweet smelling. I don't remember sneezing very often. Today I'm sure I'd have a full blown allergy attack.
These were Illinois summer rains, when we spent time on the farm. The kind of rain you can sit outside in and not get a chill. The kind of rain you hoped for so you could watch the field of corn or wheat almost grow an inch over night. The kind of rain when I didn't feel sorry for the cows out in the field. The kind of rain that inspired my mom to take a break from cooking, cleaning and laundry just to sit with me on the back porch, sipping something cold, watching the rain and talking. These were the story rains. If I couldn't be out running around, I'd be bored. I missed my friends in the city, where we lived during the school year. We only had a small tv that picked up 3 stations on a good day. I often ran out of books or old Readers Digest's to read.
These were the times I heard her childhood stories. Stories I must write down. Stories of growing up during the depression, her father dead and her mother speaking very, very limited English. These are the stories that come to me on a rainy day.
Sometimes I take a few minutes to sit in the car when it's raining, listening. It takes me back to my midwest youth and all the rainy days I'd go sit in the hayloft. Rhythmic tip tapping on the galvanized tin roof just above my head. Sometimes, when the loft was almost full of hay, I would lay down and the tin would be less than a foot away from my face. It was too dark to read. I'd lay there, thinking the deep thoughts of the young, often slipping into a light sleep. Sometimes,instead of hay there was alfalfa, so sweet smelling. I don't remember sneezing very often. Today I'm sure I'd have a full blown allergy attack.
These were Illinois summer rains, when we spent time on the farm. The kind of rain you can sit outside in and not get a chill. The kind of rain you hoped for so you could watch the field of corn or wheat almost grow an inch over night. The kind of rain when I didn't feel sorry for the cows out in the field. The kind of rain that inspired my mom to take a break from cooking, cleaning and laundry just to sit with me on the back porch, sipping something cold, watching the rain and talking. These were the story rains. If I couldn't be out running around, I'd be bored. I missed my friends in the city, where we lived during the school year. We only had a small tv that picked up 3 stations on a good day. I often ran out of books or old Readers Digest's to read.
These were the times I heard her childhood stories. Stories I must write down. Stories of growing up during the depression, her father dead and her mother speaking very, very limited English. These are the stories that come to me on a rainy day.
