I dont know why. It’s not as if I spend all my time outside this time of year. Outside around here involves however long it takes to get to the car or the mailbox, or maybe (if I’m feeling industrious) a little time in the garden early in the day. But honestly, it’s usually too hot to do anything outside.
But this morning? It’s raining. No Guilt Inside Time. I can sit at the dining table with the computer, making lists for the upcoming week, and feel no guilt at all about not being outside pulling a weed or rearranging the wisteria. I know I’ll be able to iron the shirts while watching TV, an go up to the room I glorify by calling a studio (that makes it seem like a huge and productive sort of place, all artsy, but really it’s just a tiny bedroom with no bed) and mess around with the clay, making something.
Rain is inspirational. It invites a body to sit still for a while. To read, or listen to something edifying, or do that inside thing like ironing or making menus. I looked at the weather map, hoping for a massive system that would imply an all-day rain, but instead it was a teeny little cloud, right over the south side of the county, about the size of a golf ball, that instead of promising low light and soothing patter, only offered up humidity guarenteed to approach Biblical levels by noon. I know that God didn’t throw down a plague of humidity on Pharoah, but I think He could have. By this evening algae will be forming in the low part of the front yard. It’s happened before.
Anyway, maybe I’ll close the curtains and pretend it’s darkish because of clouds, instead of draperies.