A good fall rain

Today is one of those days.  A slow, steady, soaking, misty, gray, rainy day.  The brilliance of the leaves has not been compromised in the least as I look out my window.  But instead, they take on an even brighter contrast to the slate-colored sky.  This is the kind of day that beckons to me to slow down, stop and pick up that book that I was supposed to start four months ago.  The sound of the rain on the roof is gentle and persistent.  People walk by on the sidewalk with umbrellas, except for the odd few who tuck their chin toward their chest and briskly endure the downpour.

Our Halloween decorations, two ghosts made of chicken wire and old sheets are soaked as they hold court in the front yard.  I can almost sense their irritation that they have to stand, drooping more than billowing, damp more than dangerous, soaking more than scary. 

A good fall rain is a fleeting thing here in Chicago.  It is our chance at having some Irish weather.  A rainy day in Ireland invites all those nesting sort of feelings too: tea, a turf fire, a good long conversation with a friend sharing both.  The Irish take such weather in stride and revel in the excuse for relaxation it can provide. A good afternoon nap with a nice warm blanket. 

Yes, here in the city of Chicago, the sounds of the day are muted by the fall rain.  The cars that drive by are less strident and the hiss of rain-soaked tires turns the street noise into that of a faraway stream.

Unlike rural Ireland, the cityscape of Chicago tries to ignore the weather.  The trains rush by and the planes fly overhead.  That defiant attitude of mankind, moving forward, seeking to keep time under its control.  We don’t understand that the fall rain is an invitation to stay inside and get inside of ourselves.  How foolish to squander it and the rhythm that nature offers.