Photo by Ashley Rose, Creative Commons

Today the rain started. It could have been worse. They predicted hail for Victoria. I woke up this morning in an amazing mood to a sunny fall day: head clear, full of energy, ready for anything. By 3 p.m., my mood greyed with the sky and by 4 p.m. I was downright despondent when the rain came.

Since moving to the West Coast of British Columbia 22 years ago, I’ve considered myself a weather victim. A few years ago I had to admit it —  I suffered from SAD (Seasonal Effective Disorder). If I could move to the desert I would, but love has a way of making us do crazy things. For love, I live in a rain forest.

This winter I am determined to improve my outlook — I will not be a weather victim. Besides, complaining about the weather is boring. I vow to use my sun lamp. I invest in a beautiful umbrella. I look for poems about rain to help me discover the beauty in it.

Here’s one from J. Patrick Lewis: “I puddle up the neighbourhood/I make the mailman mad/I wake the worm and spank the frog/ Sleeping on his lily pad.” Hmmm, spanking frogs? Sounds a bit obscene. Cute, but it doesn’t really help me.

Here’s another: “It’s raining, it’s pouring/ the old man is snoring./ Went to bed and bumped his head/ and didn’t get up in the morning.” See what I mean? It’s not easy to feel good about the rain. Besides, this poem scared the hell out of me when I was a kid. I was sure old men died when it rained.

I try again. Anne Sexton writes: “The rain drums down like red ants/
each bouncing off my window/The ants are in great pain/ and they cry out as they hit…”

Ok, this poetry thing is not working.

I turn to science. Somehow it helps me to know that rain falls at the speed of 22 miles an hour. Now that’s admirable. And when I consider the fact that many women and children in Africa spend four to five hours a day just searching for water, it humbles me.

Tonight, the windows are wet with rain, and I hear it on my roof. It doesn’t sounds like dying red ants (with all respect to Anne Sexton). In fact, I can’t think of a metaphor or simile for it. It just is what it is and I’ll have to make my peace with it.