Sometimes, rain can be welcoming. Seattle, living up to its wet reputation, greeted me this afternoon with the meteorological equivalent of a sloppy kiss on the cheek. A steady drizzle met me as I left the hotel.
Why then head out in the rain to find a bench?
I wondered that very thing as I sat down on my chosen seat in a park just off the edge of the shopping district in Bellevue, WA. What could such a dreary landscape hold for me?
Turns out: a heavy dose of calm.
Just what I needed.
The day started with a jolt of adrenaline. Ready to make my long drive to Dulles, I started the car in the driveway to warm it up and somehow managed to lock myself out of it! Panic surged through my body as I realized the implications. My heart pounded. I shouted in frustration.
Between calls to Alison and AAA, it was resolved quickly, but a pointed lesson had been made. Besides to never do that again, the loud warning was: You’re not handling the pace of my life as well as you thought. As clear as a road sign.
So, I sat on the bench, the rain lightly drumming on the umbrella above me, and willed myself to slow the pace of my thoughts. Take some deep breaths. Soak in the scenery.
In the distance, people happily skated in a covered rink. (Cue the Vince Guaraldi Peanuts music.)
Nearer to me, a young mother pushed a stroller around the circular path that passed by my bench. Her umbrella was a welcome splash of color in the drab and darkening scene.
It’s funny how when you slow down, things ease up into your attention unbidden, like the quiet friend who stays behind after a party. As I sat there listening, I suddenly realized the sound of the rain on the umbrella reminded me of something.
Rain on a tent.
And just like that, a sweet memory flooded back. I’m a boy of eight. I huddle with my family around the picnic table under the screen tent adjoining our pop-up camper as the rain quarantines us for the day on our trip across the country. I hear the shuffling of the cards being dealt for another round of cribbage. I feel the checkered plastic tablecloth under my bare elbows. I smell the aromatic smoke of my father’s pipe. I taste the sweet tang of Tang in a plastic mug.
Smiling at the remembrance, I get up and walk back. I feel lighter inside. And the rain seems to match my more buoyant spirit, transforming the streets into a diffused reflection of the Christmas lights.
Cheered by a rainy day. Seattle style.
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