It’s funny how one can o from a lack of inspiration to an abundance of it. Thanks, Isaac.
I love grey, windy days. Most of my friends get the blues when the clouds gather and the rain starts draining in perfect sheets off the edge of the roof and spatters on the window panes. Not me. Rain makes them want to hide in little holes.
Rain makes me feel alive.
I remember once going to Acadia National Park in Maine. There was a little cove on Mt. Desert Island, maybe the sort of cove that is hidden on the side where almost no one can find it unless they look carefully. My family was driving to the cove, and on the way there, it started to drizzle. Not too much rain so that one would be soaked. Just enough rain to wander along the sand in the cove, looking for pretty shells and smooth rocks. Or to sit on a boulder and contemplate the mysteries of life and the cosmos.
Or simply listen to the rain pattering on the ocean, with the gentle sound of surf going in and out, in and out . . .
It’s easy to relax and fall asleep.
I love the rain. On vacations to Maine, I always felt that the rain brought out something more in the scenery of the mountains, forests, and ocean. Something indescribable. When the wind followed, I would hear, from somewhere along a forest trail, the tops of the great pines and oaks sighing amongst themselves. The rain wasn’t a bad thing, either. Not only did it help the plants grow, it also made everything else seem cleaner.
Sometimes when hiking, I’d pass boulders lying straight, like a stone wall. The rain water would flow off the granite like sheets. I often found myself at a loss of words to describe the beauty revealed by the falling water.
I also remember going to the Bass Harbor lighthouse on the island. It again was a dark, dreary day. I stood at the rail of the lighthouse, looking out to sea. On sunny days, the view would be majestic. I’d have been able to see out for miles and miles (it felt). But on this day, the fog had rolled in, and I could barely see the ocean, not to mention the islands beyond. All I could see was the grey surf churning below me and occasionally, a lighthouse light shining in the distance. Egg Rock Light, maybe? I didn’t know.
It was beautiful.
And later on, driving home in the rain and passing old country dirt roads that somehow always disappeared into the fog after a few paces. I’d look into the fog and wonder where the country roads led. To a farmhouse? Or perhaps to nowhere? Or maybe the road simply led to another road, and another, and another . . .
Falling rain also always has a way of bringing me closer to nature and God. Sitting on a rock at the side of a winding trail around a mountain makes me wonder: Are you trying to tell me something, God?
Maybe He has something to tell me out of the whispers in the rain.