Today I was sitting by an open window, and the tapping of my computer keys sounded like the pitter-patter of the rain outside.
There is something about rain which seems to hit the bulls eye of my soul.
There is music in the rain: the drumming on a rooftop, the soft crackling as it falls on a pile of autumn leaves, the swish of car tires on wet streets, the plip-plop of raindrops on an umbrella.
Rain is a backdrop for color. The grey and clouds make red raincoats, yellow pansies, a candle in a window, or a blue gazebo in the town square appear vibrant and alive.
Rain softens the hard edges of city life, so street lights and shop windows glow and beckon.
I especially love the juxtaposition of a raging storm outside, and the calmness and warmth inside. For me, the perfect weekend is a rainy one in which we are all home.
And there is something about rain that makes me reach for a book. This afternoon it was something in Italian ... Piccole donne (Little Women).
Il fuoco del caminetto illuminava i visetti
della fanciulle intente al loro lavoro a maglia:
nella stanza vi era una confortante intimita`,
mentre fuori la neve cadeva fitta.