This morning it was raining, thank God.
The first good soak of the year.
The deck was slick with the stuff, the wood golden and shiny. And beautiful.
The air was literally stuffed with water vapour, and it bent the light the way photographers love, making the world appear eerily clear and vibrant.
Rain, you see, is a writer’s best friend – this writer especially.
The sun bleaches everything, sucking the colour from the world.
And it imposes itself on humanity. When the golden orb hangs in the sky, people lose their minds – they feel compelled to do stuff, as if there will never be another sunny day. They tackle yard work, cut the grass, camp, hike, picnic … they drop everything and get out to “make the most of the day.”
And if you want to sit around and read? Or write? Well, too bad – the sun beckons.
And, if you must do these things? Well, the sun gets you there too.
Chained to the desk, it makes you resentful – after all, you could be outside hiking, swimming, paddling. Damn it!
Rain, of course, is different.
At its worst, it is violent and exciting. At its most docile, its patter is soothing.
It demands nothing. It lets you do as you please.
The desk job is far more pleasant when the rain is pouring down.
And, for some reason, the writing comes easier.
Of course, you can still enjoy the outdoors in the rain – if you’re determined.
But you don’t have to. You have an excuse.
Which can be fantastic, especially on Day 2 of the bike season.
There’s nothing like waking up at 5:40 a.m. because you have to bike, rolling out of bed (and wincing a smidge because your winter-soft buttocks are bruised from the previous day’s lung-busting ride) and hobbling over to the window to see a wet, golden deck.
Now, where are those car keys? (Richard Mostyn)