We awoke in the morning to the sound of rain pounding the house; it felt as if the whole earth was being cleansed in one grand gesture. The water rushed through the gutters like faucets gushing everywhere at once, the magic of a summer rain storm altogether mesmerizing. What is it about the beating raindrops beading upon the windows that is so fascinating? Pools formed on the balconies and little rivers emerged, estuaries before unknown.
Quietude becomes us in a summer rain, softens the hard edges of life, blurs the patterns, and we see things more clearly…especially ourselves.
After the rain stopped, the birds began singing on all the balconies. I went to the window and watched these winged creatures dart from one pool to the next, dizzy with the dawn of a new day and more places to play.
The birds fly and flutter, fiercely defying to be anything but jubilant. There is water to splash in, roof tops to explore, and a brand new world set out each morning at daybreak.
We forget sometimes to play. We forget to jump in puddles and dance in the rain. We forget that nature has so much to teach us if only we will listen.
I remembered at the Hornsby House. Perhaps, it was all those stories about the children growing up in that house and all the fun they had.
I only know that my husband and I swam in the York River amidst the raindrops. The sky was the color of slate and we swam beneath a weeping canvas of light and shadows.
The clouds were a delightful canopy above us and the rain pelted the river generously…and us too!
The decades come and go, days of scorching sun, and days of soft mist and rain. There is an hour-glass that marks the time, sand through our fingers, moments come and gone.
It is good to play in the river amidst the sounds of seagulls and the laughter of children; it is good to dance in the rain, all those raindrops from heaven beating out the perfect sound.
