Without Our Listening, Together, Who Will Hear the Rhythm of the Rain?
A Poetic Commiseration and Contemplation
By Ira Rabois
It’s raining. Yet I feel good about it. There’s a restful quality to it, despite the wind and colder temperature. The snow is not yet with us. There’s a steady, moment by moment rhythm. Seemingly repetitive, yet always changing, unpredictable. The wind whips it up and the volume increases; then it slows and quiets so we can barely hear it.
Maybe I like it so much because there’s been so little of it lately. It threatened for a few days but hasn’t rained deeply for months. The earth is thirsty for it. People to the east of here, in New Jersey, have experienced its worst drought in 120 years, leading to extremely dangerous wildfires to an extent uncommon to the east coast.
Or maybe it’s the knowledge of the inconvenience of going outside, so I might as well stay where I am. Nowhere else I must go.
And it’s a gentle rain. But rain can also have the feel of a threat in it. It can mean floods. Loss of life. Water damage. And come with hurricane winds and destruction. It’s often used as a metaphor for feeling depressed, or for tears falling inside us. Or that something wants to be let out, or we want to let it out, or let something go.
