One aspect of living here that I’ve never minded is our sunny climate.  I don’t know the statistics, but the D.C. area is the brightest place I’ve ever lived. Which means I appreciate the rainy days when they come.

Today’s patter sounds like the rain in white noise machines. It has the same rhythm and pitch, the same levels of splatter. It is, then, a model spring shower. Made to order for the annuals I just settled in the ground yesterday.

I enjoy today’s rain only because it is the exception not the rule, though. There are places in this world I could never live because rain is the rule, not the exception. I’m thinking of Ireland.

Here is Heinrich Boll in his slender 1967 volume “Irish Journal,” writing about the weather of the country to which he says he is “too attached”:

“The rain here is absolute, magnificent, and frightening. To call this rain bad weather is as inappropriate as to call scorching sunshine fine weather. You can call this rain bad weather, but it is not. It is simply weather. …”

Rain in isolation does not drain the spirit. It excuses one from outside labors. It opens up the book, turns the page, settles the pen in the hand. Sometimes it even inspires.