It’s cold. In fact, it’s freezing.
I checked my “spanking new” iPhone and the app told me it would be 60 degrees today. It lied.
My feet are soaked. My face is tingling with abrasion and my books are moist. My shoes, my socks, my backpack, my umbrella, the papers within my backpack, my books, and the very essence of the materialism in my life are wet/drenched/soaked. My body, even the parts which were wet, is dry.
Believe it or not, I love rainy days. Everything seems to breathe. My romantic sense of nature is fulfilled by the relationship between water and life. In a drought, there is little else a tree is more thankful for than three days of rain.
I am amazed and altered by the power of rain. Like all forms of water the energy it holds can be manipulated but not overcome. We create contours in our pavement to divert its flow. We build reservoirs to store and utilize its energy. We hide under umbrellas and other retardants. Still, it affects our moods, driving abilities, and plans on a small scale and creates disasters such as mudslides, floods, and infrastructure damage on the grandest. Although I am subject to it, I admire the tenacity and strength of rain.
It was easy for most of the afternoon to ignore my discomfort. Music and friendly conversations were sufficient in my distraction. Once I stepped off the bus a mere block from my home, the wind and the rain with its icy disposition swirled around me and I succumbed to the full realization of myself. I could not help but to focus on my condition. Cold, wet, and lonely I walked and waded toward my front door.
There is a University-owned pasture across from my apartment. A dozen horses live within the fields and fences. In the mornings and early evenings the scene is picturesque. For a few moments each day I realize why the pastoral landscape is so often romanticized by both artists and academics. For those moments I forget the lack of diversity in a fenced in field. I forget the ecological nightmare farms wreak on our world. For those few moments I am an average human being; I forget what I know in order to feel.
Above the field a flock of birds fly briskly through the air. They sway then swoop. They lift and drop. In unison, they seem to act the same as on any other day. We humans, we silly primates, do not. What separates us from the rest of our animal brothers is not the ability to adapt and thrive on the planet we are contained within, it is our ability to separate our minds from our natural predilections. We are excellent at lying to ourselves and others.
I closed my eyes to forget myself. At once I was a part of the world surrounding me. The wind blew, but I could only hear it. The rain fell, but I could only smell it. The cold penetrated the cells of my body but I only felt content.
Birds sing the same songs in winter as they do in spring. If only we would do the same.
Anthony Sadler 