I know the U.S. is having every vagary of weather this week: snow, severe heat, tornadoes. Our weather during the rainy season in inland Mexico is pretty predictable. This rain came on quickly and with a vengeance this afternoon. Hard rain for about fifteen minutes and then departed as quickly as it came.
I am simpatico with sight, enamored of my hearing, and yet when both give signs of the rainy season nearing, I find a new sense opening as the memory of that long redolence of rain comes flooding back to me.
That first whiff of petrichor—-the breath of dust and rain brings a reunion of senses swirling back again. The touch of rain along my arms, the taste upon my tongue. The song of it in ditches when I was very young.
Every sight excited now as it was then. First its gentle pattering, then its thundering din. It beats upon my windows, streams down from the eaves. Soaks into the soil, forms droplets on the leaves
as though they are mementos of the thunder and the light that has served as a foreshadowing of the rainstorm’s might. Every sense appealed to. Riches above reason. Every prayer is answered in the rainy season.
Words for the day are breath, simpatico, sight, redolence and long. Image of the boots from Rupert Britton on Unsplash, used with permission. All other images by Judy Dykstra-Brown.
Gives an excuse for that bright orange umbrella and yellow overshoes toppled over in the hall closet, yet it is nighttime and I am old. I lie under blankets on the sofa, content with its comforting rat-a-tat on the plastic skylight overhead.
It is a friend knocking insistently, calling me out to play.
Six years old, Imprisoned by summer, we were given occasionally the refreshing release of a hard summer rain. Bare feet splashing, we raced dry leaf boats manned by our imaginations through the caves of culverts, down to those ultimate puddles magnificent in their magnitude.
Sixty years later, I am caught up in the currents of that sudden rush downwards and backwards to a plastic umbrella abandoned on the sidewalk as we opened like flowers.
Rain hides tears. Forces growth. Cleans up our messes and provides glorious new ones. Washes away today and grows tomorrow.
My attempts at active leisure are challenged by the rain, so it’s possible that I will go back to bed again. Raindrops slash and pummel. Rain soaks my shoes and hair. I wouldn’t mind it half so much if I were wash and wear, but, alas, I crumple up. I languish in the cold. I’ve a propensity for colds and coughs. My shoes develop mold. And so with no more ceremony, I’ll remain inside. When rain seeks my company, I choose to spare my hide.
No kudos to the darkness. No kudos to the rain. No kudos to departed sun until it comes again. Kudos to my blankets and kudos to my pillows. So long as rain drips steadily from eaves troughs and from willows, I may never stir again. Bring me tea in bed. No eggs, but English muffins, buttered, in their stead. I want to stay all snuggled ’til rain has gone away. Follow these same instructions on every rainy day!
This year the rains came early, starting the day after the men came to begin stripping and resurfacing my roofs. The day after they were supposed to remove the skylight, hurricane-force winds and torrential rains made me glad for once, that they had been no-shows. A month later, the repairs are over and we’ve settled into the daily or nightly showers. I am snug in my house and the mountains behind me are covered with a vivid green. Soon water will be shooting in rivers down the arroyos and cobblestone roads that lead down to the lake from my house and every teja will serve as its own channel for individual rios streaming down from my roof into waterfalls that will arc down to the terrace tiles below.
The rainy season
breaks its usual habit.
A rude early guest.
The rain falls fresh as cucumbers on cobblestones and tiles, the dust of summer washed from crevasses and curves of stone and clay.
The air is cleansed of the scent of primavera, jacaranda and flamboyan trees and the whole world breathes easily again.
Clouds dried up by sunlight, the silent birds are flushed from their covering leaves and open in chorus
to the booming crack of cohetes, splitting the air in celebration of Saint John the Baptist who has baptized all this day.
Primavera and jacaranda are the names of colorful flowering Mexican trees. Flamboyan is the Spanish name for a royal poinciana tree. Cohetes are very noisy aerial fireworks of the caliber of cherry bombs. This is a rewrite of a poem written two and a half years ago. The prompt today is egg.