The French deplore the rain. They, as they've explained, find it moche, which means ugly, and is generally the term used to describe someone or something that is not aesthetically pleasing; leave it to the country that values beauty above all else to aestheticize the weather.
The French even deplore the rain to the extent that they prefer snow, as "it's drier when it snows, and the sun comes out afterward." Apparently though, November is marked by rain, rain, and more rain, and contrary to the French's liking, however, a heavy rain storm is passing through, and has brought with it brutal gusting wind. On the way to the train today, the wind broke my umbrella, so I bought another one in Paris. The wind quickly broke that one, too.
On my way home, it had stopped raining. I left the RER station near the chateau and the sky was a tranquil black. The streets refracted the red and green beaming from street lights, and the air was thick with moisture. Even the temperature felt warmer, cocooned by the humidity.
Unlike the French, I love the rain. I love the way the streets smell after the sky has cried all it can. When I was a child, I thought rain was just that: angel tears. Winter in California means rain, above all else, and so the rain here is a comfort, reminds me of home. I love hopping over puddles. I love running in the rain even more, running until my body heat can no longer over power the thick drops of cold which pelt my tights and gloves, until mud coats my ankles and socks and shoes. I sleep better when it rains, lulled to dreams by the pitter patter on the roof and windows. Rain, in short, is one of the things about this earth that makes me feel most alive.
When I think of rain, I cannot help but think of rebirth, of transformation. I can't help that I'm programmed to think in motifs and symbols, and my meditation about the rain as I walked home was spurred by this. Everything around me is urging me to write and write and write, and I'm hungry to write--about nothing, about something, about everything. So tonight on the walk home from the train, I started writing about the rain in my head.
And my words fell in my consciousness the way the rain falls from the sky.