The Promise of Spring Rain
Rain on blossom by Maddy Hunt
“Let the rain kiss you
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops
Let the rain sing you a lullaby”
I sat on the front steps of my 1925 bungalow, surveying the street lined with its brick houses and big trees. A precious little leather-bound notebook lay next to me, beckoning me to pen my thoughts and reflections. I was in a sentimental mood so I obliged, opening the book and thumbing the pages until I reached the first blank one. It was full of promise and so seemed the world around me.
On the surface, the street scene unfolded in typical Michigan May morning fashion. The tulips decorating my garden beds opened to meet the sky, the birds sang excitedly competing with the hum of a distant lawnmower, and my neighbor dutifully inspected the blooming buds in his flower boxes. As I tuned in though, I could sense the magic that hung suspended in the humid, warm air. It became apparent that everyone and everything was in open anticipation. It was going to rain and there was something lovely about the whisperings of the impending showers. A gentle breeze passed through the air like silk and carried a bounty of surprises for the discerning – soft floral fragrances; bees dancing together, having taken a short break from their work; and the suggestion of coolness that comes when wind touches wet. Everything carried a subtle moisture, as though trees, plants and bodies alike had sucked the dampness into themselves from the heavens. Or perhaps it was that the mist had swelled from an infinite Earth supply up and into the ethers instead. A blanket of clouds moved slowly across the sky providing a gray backdrop against the colors of spring, still vibrant even in the muted light of the sun; and I sat there taking it all in and doing my best to capture the uncapturable as the first drops hit my notebook pages.
I watched it all knowing that somehow my deep appreciation and willingness to be sensitive had created the magic. I had connected, if only for a moment in time, to all that is and was gifted with the opportunity to be nourished alongside of everything else. There is a certain stillness just before spring rain, a pause before the release like the pause between breaths and in that brief but vast space, there is a promise. It is a promise of messes and mud pies and heartfelt tree hugging, and of tiny mirrors all along the sidewalk yearning to be disturbed by the rubber boots of laughing children, my own daughters among them. It is a promise of calm and contemplation invited by the pitter patter of rain on the roof and the beads of water left behind on the window, each small windows in and of themselves. It is a promise of care with each falling drop as it kisses the ground. It is the promise of love. Love, ever-present, Divine in its nature, gathering and pooling everything into itself until it is reflected everywhere, until one color is indistinguishable from the next, until all is blended and blurred and beautiful. “It is love,” my mud-covered 5-year-old reminded me. “Rain and love. That’s how the trees grow.”
Love in all things,
April Eileen
