There’s something healing in a gentle summer rain. I knew this even as a child, when a rainy afternoon would spark me to sing the Lovin’ Spoonful’s “Rain on the Roof” over and over to myself or anyone unfortunate enough to cross my path – I even had a bunch of gestures I’d choreographed to illustrate the words, which my long-suffering mother had the grace not to laugh at or appear bored with, no matter how many times I performed them.
As I’ve gotten older, I think I appreciate the respite of a rainy afternoon even more. It refreshes, but it also reminds me of things I tend to forget: that things that look dark can nurture good things; that moisture – including tears – can nurture and nourish; that perpetual sun would not, after all, be a good thing; that gifts can come in unexpected ways; that it’s good, once in a while, to stop and stand still, open to receiving whatever may fall.
So today, at home on Staten Island, tethered to a computer and freelance work (which I do both need and normally enjoy) when I would have been in Manhattan with my friends, celebrating summer, victories won, love, and friendships that “remember when,” the pit-pat of the drops, the sh-sh-sh of the rainy leaves in the slight breeze, tell me that celebrations need not be noisy, and that quiet, stillness, and time for just listening, savoring, then getting on with what needs doing, are important, too. And, after all, rainbows make no sound.