A hummingbird just flew by my window through the rain. I love rain. I love the way it makes the trees look in summer, the way the green deepens, how it moves and breathes and smells. The feeling of it on a warm day.
It’s so relaxing to listen to it–it isn’t as invasive as white noise but there’s not too much detail in it either. It calms me.
When I stand in it, I want my lungs to open up, I feel like running or roaring or flying, so I just stand there, letting the sky soak into me, droplets on my skin and in my hair.
Rain makes me hungry for the world. I dream of mirror-lakes and cloud forests and deserts all drowning in the fantastic beauty. I often stare upwards despite the water in my eyes and watch the dark grey clouds.
I love when it lighntings midday before the rain comes, in the deep heat of summer. The trees are the vibrant green they are supposed to be and the clouds are blue-purple.
Then it almost feels as though the world, the season, the light will last forever. When the rain comes thundering down I open up. I breathe. I want to speak the unnamable thoughts that run in rivers through me, I want to say everything.
Instead, all I can do is laugh and shout in these clumsy words with this hopeless, useless mouth. I can stomp barefoot on the ground but it isn’t enough. I can never expose my lungs to the purity of the air when it rains. I may race around but I’m not doing whatever impossibilities I want to.
Maybe I can express it in another language. Maybe someday I’ll find the tongue that will give to me my thoughts in mere sounds.
The greatest equivalent for me now is
La pluie est la plus belle.