I liked the rain when I was a kid.
Or maybe I didn't actively like it as much as I didn't mind it. You know how you are when you're a kid. Impervious.
But as I grew older, rain became my least favorite weather condition--a personal position that was solidified last summer when I walked across England in the rain through miles and miles of mud and sheep $%#! (I don't know why I'm so coy about language suddenly. In real life $%#! is one of my favorite words.)
Anyway, Doni and Cynthia, my walking partners, were in town yesterday and we reminisced about the rain and how Cynthia got stuck in the mud and how we were all afraid of losing shoes and turning into bog bodies and how 1000 years from now, archeologists would find us and ask themselves why people in our era went shoeless in fields covered with sheep $%#!.
But as the three of us stepped out into the rain I couldn't help but think how grateful for it I am right now--for feeding the hills and for cleansing the sky's face.
Lovely, lovely rain.