After weeks of bone-dry, seemingly endless days of drought—inner as well as weather—this is a joy. A relief. A cleansing. A return to normalcy.
Writing is like that.
For weeks we live in the parched landscapes of ourselves. We do the rain dance in our heads, to a universe that is not listening. We wander the desert of our desolate selves, hoping for the oasis to appear on the horizon. We don’t have a clue of the right direction in the shifting sands of our thoughts.
Then it rains. Maybe for a minute. Maybe for an hour. Suddenly the air is easier to breathe. The view is cleaner. The sky is interesting. The land exhales green. The river dances with raindrops. The billowing clouds are a percussion section. Even the birds sing a happier song.
And for that moment, possibilities are glorious. We stand in the joy of it, heads upturned to catch the downpour, our clothes sticking to us, hair dripping into our eyes, glad beyond measure to be part of it all. Everything is possible. For as long as it lasts.
We wait for rain. We accept it when it comes. We can’t make it happen by force of will. In weather, so it is in life, in writing.
Seed the clouds. Do the dance. And have the rain barrel waiting. We can’t afford to let a single drop of inspiration get away.