SUMMER RAIN

There are some things that the camera will not capture, much as I try.  That is a bit of an oversimplification: there are a great many things that a camera cannot capture, but there is one thing in particular which I wish I could record visually, and which I never can.  The grey mist of summer rain eludes my camera, eludes all attempts to capture it.  No photograph or video can contain it; I might catch a bit in a jar, but that would not do it justice.

The rain whispers, and the world falls silent.  A rain at any other time of year is the sort of thing you want to stay out of - the sort of thing that drives people inside.  But a summer rain does not chill: it cleans.

Summer rain speaks.  It speaks elegantly of matters which wind, snow and sun cannot - it tells stories of things that are at other times only dreams.  It is the promise of growth, of green things, of respite from summer heat.

Summer rain calls for bare feet.  At any other time it would demand boots, but in the summer it is an invitation to take shoes off instead of putting them on.  I had many a barefoot summer when I was small, and the summer rains provided beautiful puddles in which to rinse my feet.  It was a call to freshen up, as the flowers do, although they are at the mercy of the weather.  They are always grateful for the rains.

When I was small, rain called for an umbrella, but I am grown up now.  It is a frightening thing, adulthood, but it means that consequences belong to no one but me.  I can meet the summer rains unprotected, and my wet clothes and hair will upset no one.

If I choose, I can venture out into the sweet sounds and smells and the soft touch of the rains.  I can be a child.  That is a beautiful thing about being grown up: being a child.  Once in a while.  Or only when the rains come.

In my camera’s defense, here you can see that it did its best.  Water is a tricky thing that makes itself plain to everyone, but hides from the camera.  Ah, well.