We’ve finally had some welcome rain. A light steady drumbeat most of yesterday, clearing by evening, as you see above, and more of it today. It was in fact a perfect Saturday, once I decided to linger in bed reading and get up only to make Valentines and gather oranges and engage in whatever little pastimes struck my fancy, including relocating to the sofa with my book. It was a Dowager Countess kind of day, though not nearly so well costumed. And whenever the old ghosts drew near I snipped a paper heart or sliced into an orange and refused to be sad.
Here’s a little poem (titled Rain) by Raymond Carver, about a holiday like this:
Woke up this morning with
a terrific urge to lie in bed all day
and read. Fought against it for a minute.
Then looked out the window at the rain.
And gave over. Put myself entirely
in the keep of this rainy morning.
Would I live my life over again?
Make the same unforgiveable mistakes?
Yes, given half a chance. Yes.