It rains too much where I live.
It is raining again today.
Peering beyond the streaked glass window, I strain to see the faint lamplights pulsing in the haze. Dark, round hats and black umbrellas dot the streets, poorly attempting to cast any sort of color into the backdrop of the gray, gray sky.
Weak lights from street signs and restaurants buzz, twinkling in the fog as if to blink away the water in their eyes. I would wipe it away for them if I could, for those inanimate things out in the rain do not have eyelashes. How hard must it be for them to exist in the rain all day?The drops of water fall from the sky like wanderers seeking homes.
I wonder if any of the drops ever land where they truly wish to go. When the wind blows, where the wind blows, are the raindrops ever truly happy with their destination? Wheels of automobiles splash, and the puddles dissolve into oceans sliced in half.
I myself am not particularly fond of the rain. I do not say this aloud, for I fear that I will hurt their feelings. What will we do then, when the sky sheds more tears than the earth can hold?
But it is true, nonetheless, I am telling you now, that I am not fond of the rain. The rain makes everything humid, and I stare into the streets with an awful feeling that tomorrow, the day after that, and the day following that— the rain will never stop. Do you know how it feels, to feel as though the visitor sitting on your chest by that rain-stained window will never take its leave? It drives me into a frenzy, I must confess, to entertain the idea of the streets filling up with mournful, cloudy tears, and the sky forever becoming imprisoned by a sea that will never know the taste of sunshine. The rain will not let up. The rain will not leave. It just keeps raining, and I so despise the rain.
It occurs to me that I could pray for the rain to leave. I could pray for it to leave, and never return! I could pray for days that are dry and bright, days that smell like dried herbs and flowers, and days that kiss you goodnight without fear of the night. I could pray, then, afterward, for nights that are calm and warm, nights that fill the yawning sky with a million clear stars, and nights that promise me I will never be alone and drowning in rain again.
But you know why I cannot do so?
It terrifies me. The notion of rain never coming. Ironic, is it not? I speak of fire and water, and drink both at once. But sunny days cannot last forever, and I know, surely and certainly, that the rain would be bound to come.
If storm clouds sit just beyond the pearly canvas of the day… I would have but what? A few minutes? A couple of hours? Days? How long until the next rain would fall? I would suffer the wait with weights of steel, only growing heavier with each passing hour. For as you know, I so detest the rain.
To know that something is coming, to dread its arrival but never know the “when”, is a far worse fate than drowning in a never-ending storm.
Truthfully, I would rather spend my days sitting by the window, looking out into a rain that seems like it should never dry and depart, for it means that I would be lifting my head for the sun. And is that not more beautiful, because I would be hopeful?
So let me pray a little differently, then.
One. I will not pray for eternal rain, just so that I may always be looking for the breaks in the
thunderclouds.
Two. I will not pray for everlasting rain, just so that I may get drunk on a daydream.
Three. I will not pray for a forever sun, because it warns of danger on the horizon.
Four. I will not pray solely for the sun today, because the sun will come someday, and the warmth
of its heat can only be best felt when I am no longer fearful of the rain.
Instead, I pray this:
“I pray that there may be sun today, if the rays will be cast painting across the city and appreciated
for its beauty. And I pray that there is some rain today, so that the trees and flowers may drink their
fill.
I pray that there is some sun and rain every day. Just a little rain each day, until someday I may
learn to find it more beautiful from my streaked windowsill.”