“rain rain don’t go away come to me let us play…”
I used to love the rain. I used to anticipate its coming for it means muddy fun. It was an excuse to procrastinate, a chance to emote under the windowpane and a carefree moment of splashing water with playmates.
Rain was my motivation to crave for scrambled egg, dried fish, hot choco, noodles, cardigan, soft pillows, mellow music, exciting paperback, warm hug and a titillating conversation.
Confined indoor, rainy days gave me the reason to practice my artistic sensibilities. I was able to perfect my trace drawing of fairy tale & Filipino folk tale characters during elementary days, to realize my cube and other geometric patterns during high school days and to complete my artsy memento slambook & writing journals during college days.
I welcomed rain for the pools of water it gathered along the road, the dewdrops hanging from leaves the morning after, the splatter of rain on the rooftop, the whishing of wind at windows and the search for the evasive rainbow in the aftermath.
Most of all, I longed for the peace of mind, refreshing thoughts and positivity evoked by rain. It was like I was a newborn, rain washed away my impurities and eroded self-deprecating sentiments.
Rain, for me then, meant a coming together of my true self, letting my simple ways and simple desires ruled the moment.
After college, rain started to become a nuisance. Rain was then equated to tardiness at work, and in return was deduced to pay deduction. Rain became an encumbrance, it had the power to disrupt well-thought-of plan for the day. It could ruin newly-bought shoes or dress from our hard-earned and hard-saved money.
We cursed rain for the washed clothes hanging for days, making us cringe from our own moldy odor. Temper arose as rain either caused traffic jam or transport shortage. We surprised ourselves by arguing heatedly with co-passengers who stepped on our peeking feet. And we crossed fingers immediately after throwing an involuntary middle finger sign to reckless drivers swashing us with mucky water.
I also came to associate rain with tears and deep pain. It first happened when I visited my Alma mater few years after graduation. I forgot the exact reason why I was there, but one scenario never escaped my memory. It was the distress of witnessing a college girl’s anguish sob trying to rise above the torrential downpour.
The campus looked so eerie at around six pm. It was dark and there were no students in sight. I stayed at the guardhouse, illuminated just by the nearest lamppost. Across the guardhouse, outside the gate, was the girl sitting on the stone bench surrounding the acacia tree. Of course, she was not an apparition. She was just a girl so lost in her pain and uncaring of the heavy rain pouring down on her. Even the concern of the guard who approached her did not diminish her private hell.
Years after, I was able to relate to that girl’s extreme torment. I may not know the exact reason of her misery, but I can respond to the torture of pain itself. Rain became a symbol of defeat for me and a triumph for someone. I then dreaded the coming of rain, psyching myself for another mishap. At its worst, rain can even mean death.
But I discover that it’s all really up to us to let go of our unfounded fears. It’s not the rain that caused my past hurt, so it should not be the rain that would define me now. It’s just a matter of accepting that rain was and will always be a part of nature, something that I had been awaiting before, helping my candid self come out to the fore.
Rain is a part of us, will always be. It’s a constant reminder of our freshness, our youth, our free-spirited selves.
And it’s one of my inspirations.
Do I love the rain?
I used to love the rain. And I’m now sure. I still do.
Writing under the influence of rain…