Yesterday the rain began, first in a soft drizzle, then in sheets. Fog settled into the spaces between the hills, and I was reminded once again why I love living here. I used to hate the rain, but as the years go by, I have begun to long for it more and more. Rain pouring down, washing aside the dirt in the streets, making the trees glisten, filling my days and my senses with mud. I run on the soft earthen trails of the park near my home, suddenly more gentle on my legs, and without the cloud of dust which has filled my lungs on my daily runs for the last three months. Instead, I breathe in ozone and wet earth.
The white anemones at my front door have opened. They are my cue that summer has ended. Yet another year is passing. My lists are never finished, but it doesn’t matter. The rain will come anyway. Soon, the leaves will drop from the trees, after a brief garish spectacle from the maples, and we will settle in to six months of grey. My days are beginning to fill with plans for next spring’s garden, and a few crucial tasks that must be completed between droplets: finish preparing the vegetable beds, set the new arbor in firmly, so it won’t blow over, and anchor it with a grapevine, finish the cold box, make sure the chickens will be warm enough.
I like this time of year. It signals the start of weekends spent by the fire together, with a mug of hot cider and a curl of a purring cat. It signals long wet runs in the fog, followed by the hottest shower possible. It signals quilts and knitting and soon, skis and whitewater kayaks.
I missed out on autumn and winter last year. My days were instead filled with house projects and relatives and illness and frustration. I am looking forward to enjoying the rain this year, and the fog that lingers during my morning drive. I’m ready to slow down a bit. I’m ready to sit quietly for a while. It’s long overdue.