I had forgotten how beautiful the rain was.
I hadn't remembered the magic of water, pelting down from the sky, sprinkling your hair and reminding your skin that it's alive.
I had forgotten, as so many have, the wonder of accepting the fact you're going to get wet, of the release of knowing your clothes will be damp, but they'll dry out, and in the meantime you can enjoy the drops that smell so sweetly of life.
It is such fun looking up into the sky, feeling the rain on your face... such fun in the simple pleasure of knowing there is something here to enjoy, of holding your head high and walking through the downpour, when so many people scurry past, heads down, ducking from cover to cover or hiding beneath giant umbrellas, never meeting your eye, trying to escape.
There is something to learn from this, I think.
Take your time, in life, in love. If you forget your rain jacket or umbrella, accept it for the opportunity it is - the opportunity to experience something that so many people never do. Greet every moment as the chance to look around, to find something to look at, something to become interested in, rather than treating life as something that must continually amuse you.
"The cure for boredom is curiosity; and there is no cure for curiosity." (- Ellen Parr)
Live each day seeking, rather than waiting, for the things that interest you, that excite you, that bring you joy. Life is too short to wait for living to happen.
Showing posts with label rain. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rain. Show all posts
Friday, November 20, 2009
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Casual Writing
We're at the beach house. There is an abundance of rain and uncomfortable furniture. Also I've painted a watercolor picture that I'm rather proud of, and I am in the middle of a good book... I guess I can't complain too much.
But then my friend, who's house-sitting for us, called in a worried tone to inform me that my grandmother's nursing home/recuperation facility called and left a message, to which we needed to reply immediately.
-
The rain's needle feet tread heavily the windowpanes and patter on the roof. The room around me is dark, empty, and it feels small. The pattering turns to pounding, which changes to tinny thundering. I am not cold, but it feels as though I should be, typing alone on my keyboard. The insistent sounds of rain close in around me, and I am an island of quiet, buffeted by a wet world of invisible, frenzied motion.
-
Dad called the nursing home. It took four tries before someone finally answered. Apparently my grandmother had insisted that the staff bring her an ambulance, for she complained of a sore throat. She then demanded that they check her out of their care entirely, to which some ridiculously unthinking, dim-witted nurse handed her the forms to sign, freeing the home of all responsibility and authority. Then my grandmother wheeled herself outside in her wheelchair and proceeded to tip herself over on her way down a hill, which sent nurses scurrying to help her back up again, though my grandmother refused to re-enter the home.
-
The rain has quieted now. The only sound is the dripping from the broken rain gutter outside. The others have already gone to bed, and the presence of the dog at my side is reassuring. The dim yellow light above me gives a homely cast to the dark room, but the windows remain black vacuums of the night.
-
An ambulance eventually came to bring my grandmother to the hospital, where she now remains. My father is decided that his mother is completely out of her mind, totally irrational, and incapable of making decisions for herself, as this episode has shown. We all tend to agree with him; though, this does not tell us what we do now, six hours away from her side. He finally decided to go to bed, and I agreed, for I was - am - exhausted. But I can't sleep. Not just now. In a moment.
-
The dishwasher in the kitchen cools, quietly clicking along with the ticking of the cat clock. The dog is curled on the floor beside me, content to sleep where I am not. The dripping of the gutter is monotonous, soothing. I blink often, and my thoughts are slow in coming, but I feel I must share them anyway.
-
I don't know what to think. It all happened so suddenly, and yet it didn't. We knew she wasn't stable, and we knew she was taking anxiety medication in order to cope with her surroundings in the home. I suppose we just thought that those meds would continue to work. The only thing I can allow myself to hope for now is safety, for her, and the continuance of a peaceful vacation for us... we really can't do anything for her, even if we weren't six hours away.
-
The rain has stopped. Not even dripping sounds mark its sudden retreat. The darkness reigns supreme, once again silent in its contemplation but for the ticking of the cat clock. I must go to bed. I can't continue with these heavy eyelids for much longer.
But then my friend, who's house-sitting for us, called in a worried tone to inform me that my grandmother's nursing home/recuperation facility called and left a message, to which we needed to reply immediately.
-
The rain's needle feet tread heavily the windowpanes and patter on the roof. The room around me is dark, empty, and it feels small. The pattering turns to pounding, which changes to tinny thundering. I am not cold, but it feels as though I should be, typing alone on my keyboard. The insistent sounds of rain close in around me, and I am an island of quiet, buffeted by a wet world of invisible, frenzied motion.
-
Dad called the nursing home. It took four tries before someone finally answered. Apparently my grandmother had insisted that the staff bring her an ambulance, for she complained of a sore throat. She then demanded that they check her out of their care entirely, to which some ridiculously unthinking, dim-witted nurse handed her the forms to sign, freeing the home of all responsibility and authority. Then my grandmother wheeled herself outside in her wheelchair and proceeded to tip herself over on her way down a hill, which sent nurses scurrying to help her back up again, though my grandmother refused to re-enter the home.
-
The rain has quieted now. The only sound is the dripping from the broken rain gutter outside. The others have already gone to bed, and the presence of the dog at my side is reassuring. The dim yellow light above me gives a homely cast to the dark room, but the windows remain black vacuums of the night.
-
An ambulance eventually came to bring my grandmother to the hospital, where she now remains. My father is decided that his mother is completely out of her mind, totally irrational, and incapable of making decisions for herself, as this episode has shown. We all tend to agree with him; though, this does not tell us what we do now, six hours away from her side. He finally decided to go to bed, and I agreed, for I was - am - exhausted. But I can't sleep. Not just now. In a moment.
-
The dishwasher in the kitchen cools, quietly clicking along with the ticking of the cat clock. The dog is curled on the floor beside me, content to sleep where I am not. The dripping of the gutter is monotonous, soothing. I blink often, and my thoughts are slow in coming, but I feel I must share them anyway.
-
I don't know what to think. It all happened so suddenly, and yet it didn't. We knew she wasn't stable, and we knew she was taking anxiety medication in order to cope with her surroundings in the home. I suppose we just thought that those meds would continue to work. The only thing I can allow myself to hope for now is safety, for her, and the continuance of a peaceful vacation for us... we really can't do anything for her, even if we weren't six hours away.
-
The rain has stopped. Not even dripping sounds mark its sudden retreat. The darkness reigns supreme, once again silent in its contemplation but for the ticking of the cat clock. I must go to bed. I can't continue with these heavy eyelids for much longer.
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