on a rainy day, life has no rush
Time flows through the chloroplasts of new leaves, the greenest ones... when the rain stops, you’ll see
It’s raining in London today.
I’ve always wanted to write about summer rain — its duality of might and tenderness. I want to capture the clandestine excitement one feels when life has no rush: get up and stretch, snack a little, go outside for a run, take a hot shower, then curl up in bed. Thinking, sprawling, dancing, or doing nothing. Even better when you find yourself a rain-day pal and stand in unhurried solidarity in each other’s presence.
The sky has temporarily dimmed its light; if the sky can do that, so can I. Raindrops are the sound of our cups slowly filling. We return to a child-like sense of time, where grey sky freezes the next second, and now stretches infinitely to be filled with fun and exploration.
I love the earthy, musky note — the fragrance of the rain soaks into everything porous. Catch a whiff through the open bedroom window. The world smells and feels different: restlessness has been tucked in, and something dormant is about to flutter open. We learn to be alive by letting things fall into place in these rare moments of stillness.
I lace up just before the dark clouds roll over. A long shake-off run in Regent’s Park, which has practically turned into a playground for rain-day fun. Foliage has never looked so lush. The damp soil, loam, and pebbles tightly press together under my feet. The rain has calmed down the urban dust. Atop Primrose Hill, one sees as far as the city reaches. People hold hands and have long conversations on the half-wet bench. Some sit still with their eyes closed, breathing in the crisp air. The football team is still kicking hard. The air is thick with rain and effort. A field away, birds frolic happily on the shore and in the water.
Back home, you stand in the kitchen whisking a tangy sauce for my favorite Thai minced beef. Eating with you makes me feel so soft and warm inside. A film about Anthony Bourdain is playing, and I think about how lucky we are to have someone we can always talk to, to feel loved and never alone in our struggles. Time flows through the chloroplasts of newborn leaves, the greenest ones — I wrap my arms around you as we drift to sleep — and when the rain stops, you’ll see.
Maybe the sentiment I so desperately want to capture about the summer rain is the drama of change, renewal, its stormy nature, and the nostalgic ephemera that so closely mirror life itself. The next day, dark skies are forgotten. Only droplets hang on the trees. They occasionally greet your hair, like sand slipping away gently in an hourglass. There’s hardly any trace of last night’s roar. The bygone passion of the rain feels… safe. Like how loving makes me feel… invincible. On the windowsill, a puddle grows until it vanishes in the morning sun, into another day’s storm.
Written on May 27,
edited on my flight to Shanghai on May 30
PS: In the practice of writing about the rain, I’ve found no better embodiment for just how powerful writing as a medium is — it encapsulates something so intangible and fleeting into ink that can be felt, lived, and called back to, time and again.