The Damn Rain.

This morning, the clouds turn grey and I hear others around me complaining,
“I wish it would stop raining–it’s spring, it’s supposed to be nice out.”
And I cannot help but think–

The seasons in my psyche look an awful lot like this. “I’ve been working so hard for so long!”, I shout towards the heavens, “Why am I still so fucked up?!”

Because, truth be told, I want sunny and 75.

I want to be better.

I am tired of daily donning the raincoat of my isolation, the galoshes of my self-preservation, the umbrella of my well-intended doubt. I am tired of the rain.

And oh how very wrong I am. Minnesota, my first true love, has yet to live up to my expectations to be expectable. We have a joke, one too slippery for my memory, about simultaneously clothing ourselves in parkas and shorts. “Expect the unexpected,” they tell us, “be prepared for anything.”

But, after a while, my parka is heavy and my legs are cold. I am no longer able to carry both mittens and sunscreen.

When it rains, the sky opens her arms and graces us with her bounty. She pours all her love on us. She nourishes our ground and clears our air. She brings us life–at once, release.

This morning, the clouds turn grey and I hear others around me complaining,
“I wish it would stop raining–it’s spring, it’s supposed to be nice out.”
And I cannot help but think–

“I think I’ll go out in the rain.”

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