Around the time I first wake up these mornings, when the sun shinily arrives in its white and yellow newness and the sky plays along in its pink and blue newbornness, I awoke with a start to the presence of something entirely different. My room was bathed in greys and blacks and the window showed no white or yellow. What was that sound? It was insistent, heavy, steady. It felt apocalyptic. It was raining, straight down, with no accompanying wind.
I stood up groggily. The sandwiching snuggly cats got up, too. I stumbled along the line of windows on my southeast wall, pulling down heavy plates of glass, running my sleepy hand along thick wooden sills to check for mop-up needs. But they were dry. Dusty, even. Still, I closed them all, except the ones on the bedroom side of my place, with the sills which typically receive little but withstand what rain does come in with sturdier treatment. I climbed back in bed, to enjoy the sound of a steady rain as I tried to sleep another two hours.
But there was something different about the rain. We had torrents last week, sideways, violent, gusty heaves of rain. At 4:30 this morning, it was a stealthy, straight up and down sheet, like movie rain without the wind machines. And it seemed, in my sleep-craved state, both ominous and promising at the same time. It reminded me, if you'll let me go there, of the idea of God in Aslan. I could not fully relax while lying in bed. Yet, I felt somehow safe or sure at the same time, a feeling of biblical and clearly indescribable proportions.
It was as if somehow the rain were a symbol of how it both is, and is terrible and powerful beyond reckoning or even direct consideration. The rain was straight, it was heavy, it was not dramatic in an entertaining way, but it was undeniable and authoritative. It lacked humor and patience, but was not rushed or distracted.
There is little sign of it this morning, except in Buddy's odd exhaustion and my own tired resignation.