I used to dance in the rain. The sky would open and I’d kick off my shoes heading out the door. I remember living in my little 768sqft house off CR 33 near Fairhope, AL in 1998. Hurricane Georges sat at the mouth of the Gulf of Mexico for days… and days. Delivered water by the dump truck load every hour. ‘Twas a great time to be a rain dancer!

Soaked to the bone. Sopping wet hair. Water in your eyes. Coming inside to a dry towel. Feeling completely awake, clean, soft, more refreshed and relaxed than a hot sauna plus 2-hour massage. Or, exactly that feeling as after, you know… great s*x. Yeah yeah, as a Christian deeply strapped in by the buckle of the Bible belt, I *shouldn’t* voice that. But if you really want to know the feeling from dancing, playing, walking in the rain. Kicking through ankle deep puddles. Squishing wet sand and mud between toes and wiping them clean again in drenched grass. It’s that one. Happy. Contented. Sated. Joy.

I don’t know what the falling rain does to a body. It’s really no different than a wide spread slow cold shower with your clothes on lol. But there’s something about the drop by drop chilly surprise to your warm cozy clothed skin that wakes up all your senses. Feels alive and natural and fresh to be outside when nature cries. The longer the downpour the better. The denser the droplet per square inch the better. An atmosphere overpacked with particles. No shortage of breathable air though the space is completely filled of water too.

Dan laughed at my love of being in the rain, in the early years. I know he liked my simple carefreeness. I don’t think he ever joined me. But I understood. Everyone’s pleasures tailored by their own spirit. For someone reading this, my rain joy may seem unimaginably pointless and ugh! And that’s cool. The important part isn’t that we share the same joys. It’s that we remember to seek joy. This long painful stage of “responsible adulting” causes most of us to forget to find joy in simple pleasures. Isn’t it an awful shame?

By 2008, Dan protectively chided me for playing in the rain. I heard how much I should fear and respect lightening. That it wasn’t smart. It was plain dangerous and, therefore, bad. I’ll admit it 100% – I didn’t care for my bubble bursting. I know now his words were less for me and more for the little’s safety who followed me. When you’re the momma of a mini me girl, she goes and does everything you go and do. She and I had some good fun under weepy clouds. Before lightening. Before we were scared of lightening. 

Only sometimes – years later – I remembered to dance in the rain with her when there was thunder (and zero lightening). But mostly, as responsible adults do, I forgot. I forgot about the easy, cheap, simple joy of millions and billions of tear drop shapes – individually and collectively – falling out of dark clouds. Flying through the air, finding us, sliding off, and finally soaking the ground. 

Well… until today. 

Today, I remembered. Today there was a really perfect rainstorm. One to remind me, yet again, how to shoulder this “responsible adulting” (crap) by pairing it with a constant dose of light, carefree, whole hearted living. I danced in the rain today. Walked through the puddles in my driveway. Did yoga stretches on the deserted street in front of my house. And I’ve lived to tell you about it because there was thunder but zero lightening. I know now what I forgot for a while. I feel good. Kinda like… well, yeah, you know…