It’s been a dry spring in Toronto and most of Ontario. I don’t know officially if we were in a drought, but I know that May days looked more like August days—clear blue skies, dried out lawns, unhappy flowers failing to thrive.
To the rest of the world, it was the perfect spring weather—every single day: blue skies, unstoppable sun, and heat.
I on the other hand was trying to ruin everyone else’s fun and prayed daily for rain. Well, I don’t really pray, but I wished hard, repeating it over and over again, “please, please, please” and cursed the sun.
During the summer growing up, I lived beside the sea. Every day I was so blessed to roll out of bed, into a bathing suit and often by 10 was on the beach until dragged away to dinner. The very best of days. Sun, waves, wind. Perfection.
But I had a soft spot in my heart for the days when I woke up to rain drumming on my windows, clouds darkening the sky, and a quiet house where everyone slept in a little later than usual. Those days were quiet and different from our sunny day routines. Maybe we’d do chores, go to a museum, look through stores, or poke around the dust covered closets filled with old family things. My favorite thing would be to curl up with a book and no one would bother me or try to get me to run about. Rainy days were for quiet and contemplation.
I also grew up in rainy and overcast country in New York. There is something about a spring with slate blue clouds that makes the vegetation iridescent green. Those days I like to walk aimlessly, drive slowly.
My mind needs a rainy day just like the plants and soils.
Slow down, a rainy day says to me. Watch. Listen.
Grow. But do it slowly please.