“You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall love your neighbour and hate your enemy.’ 44But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, 45so that you may be sons of your Father who is in heaven. For he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and on the unjust.” (Matthew 5:43-45 ESV)
photo © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt
If you are a pluviophile like me, you don’t just not mind the rain, you love it. It seems bizarre that the weather forecasters talk about it so negatively, and that other people find it a miserable thing. I love the sound that it makes and the torrid abandonment of its falling. When I was well I used to dance and sing in it (and not just because I was a little bit in love with Gene Kelly). I would relish walking and running in the rain.
These days, I’m very rarely outside, but I do love to watch the rain, and to hear it thudding down. It keeps the power tools in their sheds and other noises at bay. But rain does have the potential to spoil days as well as make them, however much we love or need it. No-one likes rain on their wedding day, or when they have planned a picnic. Like holding a fuzzy filter over this photo, rain does create a sheen over the day’s events, and curtail what we might do with our time, even though it also sometimes brings us the joy of a promise bow in the sky.
Photo and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2017
Thick old, solid stone, grey as Father Time’s beard, topped with a thatched short back and sides. Square leaded windows look yonder, and see the haywain stalled after the heavy rains. Smoke rises, but carefully, through the tall stovepipe hat up into the English sky: grey, blue, or patched white with lonely clouds, never quite able to make up its mind.
A chocolate box mirage of domestic bliss, cosy family corners, evening Scrabble and the smell of slow cooking casserole on the range. This remains a place of tangled memories, as most small spaces are, home bitter-sweet home, a hearth around a roaring fire, but the sound of the belt still echoing on dismal Sunday afternoons, beyond the reach of the church bells.
© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016
Photo from morguefile.com
The curtain calls, and I long to push through to the other side, out of the cavern and into the light beyond. But endless years hold me here and the fear of getting soaked prevails. Veils of cascading current, collected teardrops fallen from clouds of burden, here released into flow that intrigues my fiercely beating heart. Could I really come forth and join in the droplet dance? Is there a place for a human form amongst the pearls that leap joyfully from on high? May I stand, then, drenched in downfall and saturated by silver light?
Then I will dare, I will risk the chill and the wetting, I will rend the perfection of the membrane and be born again. I will stand and lift my head, open-mouthed to the flow and laugh with outstretched arms inside rampant rivulets of grace.
©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015
Bulging frog eyes, lidded, the first drops of summer storm splatting on the lily platforms beside us. Till moments ago, a chorus sang advice and well-meaning platitudes all around. Now few remain, all flippers flapping downwards, into more familiar wetness where the world stays still. Above and between the waters, some are happy to be manhandled by excessive weather, bruised by heaven- sent tumbling globes, battered by dewdrops. We are refreshed and moved, renewed and serenely unsteadied, glad to know our own uncertainty, we laugh and croak in the rain.
Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015