Yesterday it rained, and at one point it rained hard enough that even an Oregonian was compelled to call it "rain" (what most people call rain, we call a heavy mist). I'm much happier now -- I prefer it when the morning's cold and clouds actually stay around and put out, instead of burning off into that mid-fall schizophrenic heat I loathe so. I know it's pretty cliche to hear this coming from an Oregonian, but there's some truth in the stereotype -- I love rain. I love all kinds of rain. I love a summer rain with that smell coming up off of the dust when the first raindrops hit it. I love a fall rain when the cloud cover is intermittent and the sun low in the sky shines through so that it's bright and sunny but raining at the same time. I love a dead-of-winter rain when it's coming down in vertical sheets and the wind is howling and driving the rain right through your coat and you come in from it and peel off layers of wet fabric and sit by a fire or soak in the tub with a hot toddy or buttered rum or chocolate, and listen to the angry moans of the storm and smugly reflect on the fact that there are good walls and a roof between you and all of that weather. I love the way the rain showers everything squeaky clean and the way everything smells clean and healthy and the way that any flat surface glows and glistens at night from the reflection of the streetlights or the moonlight in the wetness that the rain deposits on streets and cars and sidewalks. And I love the sense of resolution that is felt after you've watched the sky darken and turn more and more brooding all day, they way the tension builds, giving the weather an almost emotional quality, until it erupts in a liquid tantrum that gets everything off of Mother Nature's chest. And I love the sweet calm that comes after the rain passes.
I can honestly say, God knew what He was doing when he had me born in Oregon.