You can’t argue with mood weather.
Twenty minutes ago, I was shopping at Meijer. The weather was hot, and skies were, if not entirely clear, at least on the lighter side of cloudy.
Now I’m sitting in my car as marble-sized raindrops pelt a drumbeat on the glass and the wind pulls at the trees like a panicked mother holding her child’s hand while running from God knows what. The thunderstorm is in full swing, and tornadoes seem no longer a thing of dreams and legend.
It’s been dry in Upland these last few weeks. Our grass has turned a weary, hopeless brown, and a fire ban has been in effect across the county. This rain is a boon to farmers and firebugs alike.
The thunder is not loud and booming as he usually is, but is instead bold and playful. Usually solid stationary, I now hear him dancing across the clouds like his mistress lightning. She stays a step ahead of him as always, but now he pursues, anxious to finish his chase.
And the romp continues.
Around them, the rain falls, mostly without passion. They are factory workers, sometimes rushing to meet a quota, but generally doing as little as they can get away with.
The world is greener now…not the grass yet; that will take some more time. But the sky has taken on a musky green hue, jade pastels blended with nimbus grey. Not just the clouds, but all around, all the white surfaces lean toward the emerald. The green is not in the sky; it is in the air itself.
Writers need the rain. Like many, we love the sun, but it is a deceptive friend, luring us out with promises of a day filled with joy and frivolity. These promises will be kept, but at the expense of ideas–nearly given form, but neglected for an hour or a moment too long.
Rain keeps us inside, writing as we ought. It also carries a melancholy desire for something more. And without desire, where is our motivation? Without motivation, whence comes writing?
I hope it’s raining where you are.
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