An Apology to the Rain

And I'm starting to think the rain needs a better publicist.

We treat her like an uninvited guest.Curse her name when she messes up a fresh fade or a silk press.Hold up our umbrellas like we're at war with weather.Act like the atmosphere is throwing a tantrum just to wash away forty dollars' worth of foundation,just to ruin our Sunday picnic.

But today, I want to write a public apology letter to the storm.

Because no matter how many times she gets rejected, she still shows up for work.Do you know how much dedication it takes to throw yourself from the heavens?To willingly shatter your own body against the concrete,again and again, with no promise anyone will thank you for it,just so the soil underneath has a fighting chance?

She is the universe's hardest worker.But she will always be remembered as the one who ruined the itinerary,and never the one who built the scenery.

We call her a disaster. We never call her a midwife.

I spent years running from her,ducking under awnings, timing my whole life around her arrival,like she was something to be survived instead of something to be let in.It took me that long to realize avoiding the rain is just a good way to forget what water feels like.

The other day, I was walking through a garden,and I saw this flower standing so tall, it looked like it was trying to give the sun a standing ovation.Its petals were heavy with the morning downpour.And looking at it, I finally understood:

You don't get that kind of beauty without a little bit of breaking.You don't get that kind of bloom without the sky being willing to weep first.

So maybe the rain isn't a metaphor for sadness at all.Maybe the rain is a metaphor for surrender.

Because without it, the earth forgets how to drink.Without it, we forget that sometimes the plans are supposed to get ruined.You have to stand there, completely soaked to the bone,rinsed of everything you were performing,just to see what was brave enough to grow underneath.