March

Its a Monday and I can't help but imagine a cold March with ten inches of snow on the ground, the last remnants of snow before the advent of spring as the sun shines brilliantly and the birds have started humming.

Mid-Summer Rain

A lot of people tend to be quirky about the rain. People curse at the rain, swear off and instantly feel down. What is about the rain that people tend to hate so much, especially so much more so than snow? I've never truly been able to understand that. I am a rain kind of person. I prefer Fall to any other season, and if I can't have that, I'll take Spring. Winter and Summer tend to be my last selections, Winter coming in third and Summer finishing it off.

For me, the sound of raining is something that both calms something so deep within my soul, and also stirring, exciting those emotions I've left aside during normal business hours to be a functioning member of the society. The whole idea of being caught to a surprise shower seems something entirely delectable to me, and the premises Romantic, no matter how unconventional being caught in the rain can be.  Rain itself, holds a promise, promise of a better, bigger, brighter, fuller and in bloom tomorrow that holds the possibility of fruition of my labors. I can always interpret it as a sign of blessing from the Heavens to at least sooth my agitation and anxiety of how everything has been stagnation and has come to a still.

Rain, you're always welcome in my backyard.

Missing: Long Walks

I'm missing the rainy seasons of October where I took long walks in the streets between the Wingra Lake and the Zoo, Monroe street and the Monroe Library I ended up, and late at night, found all these mystic signs I interpreted that I was going to get better, I was healing and that regardless of my age, a good future was waiting for me. The nights where I could not get home soon enough from the day, night and go out to my wilderness to come face myself, reality, failures and acceptance of the miserably fallen self that had isolated myself so much that the only voices I heard of mine own, inside my own head. The breeze by the lake, the bicycle bells walking up and down the slight hill and the wooded areas most avoid, I took sanctuary in their bays, coves and darkness.