Rain has moods. It has personality, even character.
Falling softly from a gentle blue-white sky that seems as smooth as glass, light fine rain seems at first to be just mist hanging in the air. But then its subtle caress grazes my skin, leaves butterfly kisses over every part of me at once while threading my hair with tiny crystal beads. Though they share a name, this rain bears no resemblance to a raging thunderstorm.
Roiling black skies unleash the fury of a hundred years of war in an instant. Howling winds attack me, trying to drag me away, or at least batter me to my knees. Heavy raindrops pelt my body, pebbles from a slingshot shattering against my bare skin, rain so cold I’m shocked it isn’t frozen runs down the length of me, wearing me away. When I escape, I am always stunned that the water has not carved deep lines where the rivulets ran down. I stand amazed that I am not eroded like a rock cliff by the power of these storms.
I can feel the rain even when I am not in it. I sit here and watch the rain through the windows. It seems quietly sad today. The sky is featureless and almost white. It is the absence of sky. Enough light slips through the gauzy veil of cloud that the trees and grass haven’t lost their color. It’s almost as if the weather is putting on a brave face. It’s been raining for sixteen days. Never enough at once to clear the sky, always enough to fill puddles and clog gutters with mud. All the pain of an emotional breakdown without the catharsis.
I don’t now that I put any kind of stock in the zodiac, but I am an Aquarius, a water bearer, and I have always felt that water was mine somehow, that I was part of every pool or stream or storm I’ve ever been in. As I write, I think about how much I’m talking about myself. The rain is mine, and I am its, and perhaps it is telling the story I can’t.
I am not where I had expected to be ten years ago, and recently a large door has slammed in my face. It hurt more than I realized, more than I could explain if I tried, but I learned that a path I wanted to take is not for me. I cannot walk that road. And the rain tells my story for me. It tells of my slow-burning pain, the unwillingness to let it all out and feel it and be done with it. I could, and should, unleash my anger. The rain should come all at once, unleash that century of conflict within. But we won’t, because it is not time yet. Instead, we will let it drain out of us slowly and move on.
It has rained for sixteen days. And so have I. A few more, and maybe this will be over. But the rain will come again. Next time, it might be the kind that washes the world clean, fills it with possibilities, the kind of rain that makes one feel reborn. Or it might be a hurricane that destroys everything in its path, tempest that rages until there is nothing left, not even itself. Only time will tell.