I believe that in order to appreciate the sunny days, you need rain. Rain as I just start pitching my tent, rain just when I start to garden, rain just as I spread the table cloth for the picnic. I believe in rain that provides a soaking coldness permeating my scalp and clothes. Even on a summer day, I welcome precipitation that turns the sky dark and makes the umbrellas glisten. I believe in the rain that makes me wonder what I’m going to do inside the house for an entire day.
I believe in the big thunderstorms that shake houses and rattle roofs. It’s comforting to hear the windows scream and beat against their frames to resist the foul weather because it lets me know that I am not the only one with unlucky days.
Hearing thunder crack like a bullwhip and seeing the shadow play across the wall from the lightening dancing across the sky, just makes me appreciate the sunny days more.
When the clouds part and that clear blue sky opens, I can see for miles. I think of the clouds as blank inkblots asking for my imagination to categorize the anonymous shapes. However, predicting what’s coming and seeing exactly where you’re going just takes the excitement out of the journey.
Rainy days make me appreciate the warm, sunny skies. Sometimes, I can take the nice weather for granted and I forget that that the rainmaker rolls the dice and on the odd day they plop down right on top of my outdoor plans. When I’m trying to find a certain peacefulness by camping in a tent and I can hear the freight-train sounds of thunder rolling directly toward my tent, the rain forces me to reexamine why exactly it comforts me.
And yet, the sun still rises the next day. I believe that if I’m lucky, it shines through the clouds and I forget that my car windshield has dents from the quart-size hail that rained down upon it yesterday.