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May Showers

May Showers

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We woke to a green world this morning. Days of rain have freshened our lawn and trees, have sprouted weeds, have scrubbed the air clean of pollen and delivered back to us a pristine place we have to look twice to recognize.

What to make of this sodden, soggy terrain? It is no trouble for us, with our paved roads and our close-and-lock windows. With our non-leaking roofs. We are free to muse on the weather rather than fight it. Though there have been torrents in the past, flooded roads and parking lots, wet basements and water damage — these were not our fate this time around.

It was hard not to appreciate this rain, even the thunderstorm last evening that topped it off.  I can hear the flip of wings as birds bathe in green springs that will be gone by noon.

April was short on showers. May is making up for them.

Rain in Isolation

Rain in Isolation

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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.

Frozen Fog

Frozen Fog

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Out this morning early to move one car and help scrape another, I skittered over the icy driveway and marveled at the cold fog that envelops our neighborhood. It looks like frozen fog to me, but then I wondered, is there such a thing?

There is, I learned, but we don’t have it this morning. Frozen fog appears only in very cold conditions (minus 40 degrees) or in very rare ones (with 100 percent humidity and very quick freezing). I also learned that in the western United States early settlers called this ice fog pogonip, a variation of the Shosone word for cloud.

I will keep calling it frozen fog, though. I like the alliteration — and the crow-cawing loneliness of the scene outside my window. I am also most grateful that I don’t have to go out in it this morning. Frozen fog is best viewed from inside.

Photo from an earlier, snowier winter.

First Flakes

First Flakes

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They were barely more than specks in the sky when Copper and I stepped out for our walk yesterday. Bits of fluff from an errant dryer vent, I thought at first, or airborne ash from a fire. I didn’t know that snow was coming. I should have. All morning the earth had that gray stillness it does before the weather changes, a pause, a turning from one element to another.

As we walked, snowflakes dotted Copper’s shaggy back. This would make a good picture, I said to myself several times — and every time I did he did his little doggie shake and they would all be gone.

When we came inside, I still thought the snow shower was a fleeting one. But it flurried the rest of the day and left us with a thin coating, our first of the season. In winter, the world looks better in white.

Summer in Fall

Summer in Fall

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Wet windy weather is moving in today, weather more in keeping with the season. So in honor of balmy blue November skies, of leaf-scented raking days, of shorts in winter, here is photo of skating in short sleeves, a celebration of summer in fall.

Permission

Permission

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A cloudy morning grants permission. Not that one needs it, of course. We are all grownups here (well, almost). We go out or stay in as we are moved to do.

Still, a cloudy morning says, no need to venture out just yet. You will miss nothing by sitting here just a moment longer with the laptop, tapping a few more words onto the screen, reading another passage, closing the book and pondering a phrase.

A cloudy morning diffuses the light. No rays blare from the east. No shadows fall. The clouds are democratic; they spread light evenly across the land.

There is something in the work-worn soul that craves a cloudy Friday morning. It is a long sigh, a pause, a resting place.

Snowtober

Snowtober

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The name isn’t mine but I can’t think of a better one for a snowy October day, one of the few we’ve ever had in northern Virginia this early in the, well, we can’t really call it winter, can we? This early in the season — that’s better.

In honor of our snowy day, here’s a photo from the vault. With fond hopes that this is not the beginning of a hard winter to come.

Rain Inside and Out

Rain Inside and Out

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As I listen to the rain outside this morning I think about those white-noise machines of rain sounds, how soothing they are. Perhaps nothing is as relaxing as the sound of rain — unless it is rain you soon have to go out and brave.

It is the vicarious rain, then, the rain we listen to and watch, that makes us feel calm. It is the contrast between what we hear happening outside and what we know to be true inside — the comfortable, dry room; the tea just brewed, a good book at the ready. No need for boots, an umbrella or raincoat.

I’m almost convincing myself. Before it’s too late, I must finish this post, gulp down my tea, put down the book. It’s morning. It’s raining. It’s time to leave.


Not quite enough rain to need a canoe. But these days you never know.

Acquainted with the Rain

Acquainted with the Rain

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Waking up to another rainy day this morning, these lines of Robert Frost’s come to mind:

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain — and back in rain.
I have outrun the furthest city light.

It’s a dark poem for a gray day.

Wondering if I’ve overlooked the sun or if we really have had an especially rainy, gloomy September, I consulted the Capital Weather Gang. One of their articles tells me that it’s been one of the soggiest, cloudiest Septembers on record — only four days with more than 50-percent sun. And that article was written September 21.

It reminds me of weather forecasts for England and Ireland when I’ve visited there. “It will be cloudy, with sunny intervals.” An interval lasting, oh, about ten minutes or so.

This weather is a test of our mettle, of our ability to keep a sunny state of mind while daily being deluged with the opposite.

Late Light

Late Light

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There is a special quality to the day that has been cloudy and ends with a last-minute parting of the clouds. The sun, of course, is low in the sky, and so those first rays are a bit disorienting.

Is it just selective memory, or does the sun set more grandly, more expansively on those days? It makes sense that it might. Banks of just-parted clouds pile in heaps on the horizon and add drama to the sun’s steady slipping.

And on the ground, people who have been inside all day rush out to walk before darkness falls. The streets that were clammy and silent are suddenly peopled again. There is an unusual briskness at day’s end. And a hopefulness for the morrow.