There’s an old joke about writing that says all stories begin with “it was a dark and stormy night”. Tonight isn’t stormy, but it is rainy. Rainy days are good days. I’m always thankful to be snuggled in a warm dry home allowing my thoughts to roam where they will. There is a peacefulness in a soft, gentle rain that permeates through everything that’s done. Sleep comes easier with its quiet rapping on the roof.
The farmers I talked with this morning will welcome it for their fields that have dried out since the last rain came last month. The plants will welcome this rain with their branches stretched high to catch each drop. It will bring sustenance for their roots and a new eagerness for the morrow. Creeks will fill once more to continue down the river bed cut out so long ago. Tomorrow the earth will be refreshed and smell so sweet. Grass will grow and before long demand to be mowed.
We have seen the summer come and go and welcomed fall with open arms spinning to see the leaves and trees coated with orange, red, and yellow. We must enjoy the beauty before a strong, wild wind blows through ripping those brightly, colored leaves from their aerie to waft down to ground that will hold them while they decay and enrich the dirt.
Lawns across America will be covered with those scarlet and golden reminders of the beauty that is offered if we will only look. Children will play in the piles that are raked and for that brief moment the leaves will once again fly toward the sky before returning to the sod once again. This quiet rain introduces the coming winter weather with its cold, wet days.
Before too much time passes, it will be comforting to sit near a fire while drinking hot chocolate or slurping soup. But for now, it is a tween time being neither hot nor cold. The activity of summer will slip into quiet days and nights covered with blankets and down. This is the time to slow down and think, to plan, to dream, or just to be. The dead of winter isn’t just a saying rather it is an appropriate description of this time of year when mature blooms depart to prepare for their rebirth in the coming spring.
George Eliot described it much better when she said, “Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns.”