If you have been living in Toronto this summer, you will probably have joined the “I miss the rain”-camp. We have had day after day of gorgeous blue sky , and as much as that aids my spirit, my soul feels like the Sahara. When my travels took me to Montreal this last week where the local meteorologists daily enhanced my “café au lait avec un croissant” with the sweet flavor of an anticipated thunderstorm, I was ecstatic.
5 days later I have returned without a single drop falling from the Quebecois skies.
Tonight I stand on my balcony, extending my arms out to catch the first crocodile tears spilling from the dark, heavy clouds. Looking down onto the water dance with the wind on the mirror like streets, I feel like a kid at the entry gates to Disney World. It is raining, well, pouring. Finally!!!
Despite the presence of my visitor I cannot hide my excitement, and within a few moments I know what has to be done next. I grab a towel from the closet, advise my friend to follow me, and within the next minute we are on our way down on the elevator. I haven’t known her for very long yet, and am aware of the immanent risk of destroying my image but a woman has to do what she has to do. No matter what other people will most probably never think of her.
I push my way through the building doors and step outside. The rain is falling hard but not as heavy as it seemed from the 17th floor. Still, there I stand, arms reaching out, turning myself into a spinning cross, letting the water soak my hair, my clothes, my feet. I find a few puddles, and had any kids been around my puddle-jumping behavior would give any five year old something to keep up with.
I am not the only one who has noticed the rain. Looking up towards the skies I see fellow building buddies standing on their balconies asking themselves whether to be more amazed by the almost forgotten wonder of rain or the crazy chick doing a rain dance below. I should care. I don’t.
I am celebrating. Life, the rain, my ability to forget the adult in me , the soothing sensation of water on my depleted soul.
Too quickly it is over, and just in time to prevent a complaint about its brevity, I catch myself.
It may not have been much, but I am thankful for each and every drop of it. My friend hands me my towel and with squeaking flip flops we march back into the building, drenched but happy.
I think my image hasn’t suffered too much, actually, in a liberating way, it has improved.