I love the luxury of other. A pool-ball click to change your track and send you sprawling, groundless into unhewn ground.
So it is for me with rain since living in Provence, the sunny South of France, where folks flock from around the world just to soak in a nearly 365 big bolt of blue. Can you imagine that it can be tiresome to have that same ceiling perpetually overhead, no matter how stunning the view? It can.
And so I delighted in wrapping myself in a rain shroud during our recent trip to the safari tent. Up in the mountains where air can fog to trip up and fall down. We had just returned from a hike where at one point we were so deep in the woods that I was awaiting to bubble pop into Narnia, when the skies thundered an announcement over the PA that we would not, actually, be straying from the tent at any point today save for two highly ambitious hoverings over the barbecue.
Droplets pelted the tent roof like clacking typewriter keys, writing new stories.
It was such a climate shift that I felt a little lost and nearly nervous. So I just listened. And watched. Until I started to enjoy this land-fall swimming enough to turn Automatic Pilot off with a mindful fingernail flick.
There is freedom in such pounding rain when you have no where that you have to go and no how that you have to be.
Just to listen to rough music, so sweet to the mind.
Mes sincères remerciements to the exceptionally talented:
for inspiring me in general and today's post in particular.