It's raining in the valley today. By valley, I mean San Luis Valley of Colorado. I've only lived here eight months, and I've realized that rain is rare here. I am sitting in my car waiting for my daughter to get out of school. I pick her up, run her home, and then return to work. As I watch the raindrops hit the windshield, I think how nice it is to have the rain. I was wondering what I could say about rain that hasn't already been said. The smell, the sound, the feel of rain are all ideas that have been overwritten. We've all heard of women crying, lovers kissing, and men working in the rain. I'm thinking that even the idea of nothing different to say about rain has probably also been written . So, what shall I say to add to the writings of rain?
A woman just drove up in the pick-up lane at the school. She's driving a beat up Toyota from the 80's, and her stereo can be heard across the parking lot. She's got rap music blaring with the bass so high I can see my convertible top moving. The music is such an intrusion on my peaceful experience. What would make a person want to blare rap music on a rainy day like this? Why did she chose that song, at that decibel? She rolled down her window as if the rest of us couldn't hear it good enough. I'm annoyed by her lack of respect for the rain. As she drives away, I turn my focus to the drops on the windshield.
My mind wonders from thinking how we are all tiny raindrops on a windshield, and then that seems cliche and like a lyric from a country song. I then realize that as I sit there with my car turned off, the drops accumulate, and I'm becoming hidden behind them. There's something nice about hiding from the world while you're sitting in your car. Something empowering, and I don't want to turn on the car and watch the drops wiped away.
Through the cloak of rain, I see my daughter walking towards the car. I'm sad. It's a rainy day, and I should be able to spend the afternoon with her. Yet, I have to go back to work. Sometimes it seems so odd that I'm a psychologist helping others navigate through their lives, and yet I'm doing it at the expense of time spent with my daughter. Does that make sense? I'm not sure.
She's getting in the car, exclaiming that her lightweight sweater is not a good raincoat, and we drive off. The rap lady is long gone, the drops are wiped from the windshield, and I am about to drop her off at home and return to work. Is this something new about rain? It is to me.