Rain refreshes. Rain immobilizes. Rain revives. Rain soddens. Rain delights. Rain depresses. Rain greens. Rain grays. Rain is a gift. Usually gifts are welcomed. Sometimes not.
I have never endured a rain induced damaging flood. I have never endured any kind of significant flood. In this, thus, I am lucky. Probably most of us are. Flooding is localized in the global scheme of things. As is its opposite, sere, usually burning or scalding, aridity. Yet for the endurers of these extremes, localized is their world during its prevalence.
For the endurers of anything not-good, it is a trial anyone else will not understand.
In fact, most of whatever each of us experiences in our consistently occurring 24 hour spans after 24 hour spans after 24 hour spans, is what anyone else will not, and so, we being highly self-referential, will not understand.
I move on. I am sitting in a quiet house, in a quiet room, with windows closed, so a largely perceptually quiet outside, although I just heard a minor unidentified sound and, looking outside, saw a kid– 8 or 9 years old–bicycling down the street, unrain-geared, but likely, so would I have been at 8 or 9, defiantly so. Especially if urged to don the jacket, the hood, take the umbrella, to not take the bicycle out in this…. From a young age we assert our individuality.
And each of is one, an individual. And each of us need to never forget that, about ourselves, and about every other being we cross paths with, hear about, see, talk to, listen to, consider. Simultaneously, each of needs to remember that each of impacts what and who we see, talk to, listen to, write to or about, even, what and who we, ourself, think about. Very rarely do our thoughts not translate into actions (be they physical, verbal, or emotional), which impact.
I move on some more.
How many different modes of transport in these pictures? My oh my, our options seem limitless
From rain to transit, where shall we go now?
Lodged
The rain to the wind said,
‘You push and I’ll pelt.’
They so smote the garden bed
That the flowers actually knelt,
And lay lodged–though not dead.
I know how the flowers felt.
– Robert Frost
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