This Tuesday morning in the middle of our unusually heavy winter I awaken to the sound of rain. I enjoy the indoors, especially so when it is wet outside. I feel like the earth is asking me to leave her alone while she performs her mysterious maintenance work. Even though I must spend the day indoors in some rather restful manner, down deep I feel like I am doing something productive by just staying out of the rain. Given a large enough house with many interesting things in it to keep me occupied, I could easily live in the rain country.
I just say that. It might not actually be so. I’m not sure. Sun, and lots of it, is awfully nice to have too. The rain feels conducive to writing, and the writing makes me feel also as if I am productive and useful, even if the main subject of the writing is me and my useless old ego. The part of me that is not ego is not so easy to get at, and when I do get to that silent medium that dwells underneath all the superfluous sheathing, I don’t find so much that is easy or necessarily interesting to write about.
What is there about my life that is worth comment? I suppose in my younger wilder days everything seemed like such an adventure. Every day seemed like a huge possibility for fun and excitement. As I grew a little older, that fondness for living transferred over into a fascination with water sports–windsurfing, to be specific. And now that my body will not cooperate with such athletic and rigorous demands, I look elsewhere for inspiration. The wet indoor days such as this one invite me to find a love for life in quiet, reflective moments rather than active, physically intense ones.
I have always expected that life would come to this: that I would be content with a dog-eared book and a rain-streaked window, a cup of coffee and a well-maintained fire. And here I am, come full circle, living the life I always thought I might some day live, as if I had seen it for myself in some distant past. The past dream has arrived in this present moment.