I love rain. It's my favorite kind of weather. I love waking up to a midnight rainstorm and listening to it hit the roof in the dark. I love how home feels cozier when rain is falling. I love the smell that wafts from concrete as the rain wets and cools it. I love puddles and rainbows and the birds made happy by an abundance of fat, dripping worms.
Plus, I live in the desert. Rain here is a blessing. Rain is rare. When it falls I think of the trees in the mountains, drinking deeply. I feel my own dry, dusty spirit reviving. The anxiety that builds deep down in me lifts when it rains because I feel that all will be right in the world. Rain in the desert is ephemeral hope turned to indelible moisture, at least for a few hours.
But, I confess: I cry uncle to the rain.
This May, we've had about four days when it hasn't rained. The snow continues piling up in the mountains. The clouds gather daily and the rain falls, and part of me revels in it, but by now the rest of me is water logged. The very anxiety that's usually relieved by the rain now burgeons each time I hear the wet patter on the sidewalk.
I live in the desert. I love the rain but my body is accustomed to endless sun. Dry and dusty is my spirit's natural state. Rain revives my secret places but too much, I have learned, drowns; I cannot keep my head above the rising water. By which I mean: it has been a long weekend in dark places. My eyes are tear burned even though nothing seems to matter enough to cry over. The only thing I want to do is sleep.
I need the skies to dry out and the sun to come back.