Rejoicing in the Rain

Today’s dawn is dreary, heavy-hearted, kept still by an uncommon silence from the morning birds. Yet the foreboding sky does not depress me. As the day progresses, the sky pours itself out by the buckets. I feel alive as I drive beneath it, as I wait for coffee, as I jump through puddles between the car and the stop and the stop and the car. All day. It is a day whose very coldness makes a smile feel warmer, tomorrow seem sunnier, and I am thankful. I finally arrive at home, my feet cold from continual wetness. But all is well: it is time to brew the tea, to play the piano into the fading afternoon, to corner oneself with a heavy book. It is a Sense-and-Sensibility Day. The distant hillsides mist over with the hanging rain. I see them in black-and-white.

And yet, I bring myself to zoom out, and I realize that I am far from the English countryside:

But still the beauty of the rain, the beauty of that warm smile, bring me to rejoice.

Stuck in a Hole

At times, I feel as if I am stuck in a hole with only Jane Austen and a cup of tea to keep me company. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not complaining. If I have to be in a hole, I’d rather have Jane Austen and a cup of tea than nothing at all.

Life comes at one with its arms full of machetes, battle-axes, and iron maidens, and one really should be quite grateful for the occasional hole to fall into. The hole can be quite nice, really. Lovely brown earthy walls make decorating a cinch, and I have always wanted to paint the ceiling to look like the sky. So there you have it: me, Jane Austen, a cup of tea (caffeinated, of course), and a possible pocketful of chocolate somethings-or-other inside my delightful hole with the blue-and-white sky for a ceiling.

When I’m down in the hole, I am free to let my hopes and dreams wander down paths that are simply unimaginable when above ground. For instance, perhaps a young and unbelievably handsome prince will come by one day and stumble into the hole. (At this point, I would knock back the rest of my tea, hide the chocolate somethings in the convenient dirt, and tuck J.A. in my back pocket for safekeeping.) The young and unbelievably handsome and possibly wealthy prince will most likely say something to the effect of:

“Tally Ho, you simply enchantingly posh princess-wannabe, today happens to be Impossible Wishes Come True Day.”

And he’ll let me stand on his unbelievably handsome head whilst I climb out of the hole only to find myself beneath the silvery walls of the prince’s castle.

Of course, the prince can’t be completely perfect. He will have to have some minor flaw so I will have something to think about while I ramble among the castle gardens and panda-bear-shaped hedgerows to pass the time. He might be stricken with the inability to tie his cleverly tailored shoes, for example. Or perhaps he might have an unreasonable detestation for Wednesday afternoons. Whatever his minor flaw might be, I know I will be able to overcome it because of how much I really love him.

Real love. Pardon me, but I should have said how much I make-believe love him. Someone pulled me out of the hole just now, so please excuse me. I really must get back to battling the mosquitoes.

The Man from Manchester

The Piccadilly Gardens in Manchester - I'd love to see them in person someday...

Have you ever clicked with a perfect stranger and even though you know you’ll probably never see that person again beyond those few minutes, you feel afterwards as if you have a friend, a kindred spirit, wandering out in the world with you? I met someone like that once. His name was Tom. And he was from Manchester.

Last summer I spent a month travelling on the mainland visiting family and friends who live in different corners of the country. I believe I was flying to Atlanta to catch a connection to take me out west. My plane was delayed (no surprise there) and I was worried that my connection flight would leave without me (which wouldn’t have been a surprise either). It was a bad year for flight plans and lost luggage, to put it mildly. Needless to say, I was more than a little stressed out as I wobbled down the 12-inch aisle in my unsensible summer wedges with my bag full of books whose number I can’t seem to decrease no matter how many times I fly. And that’s when I saw him. Sitting next to my empty seat. Twinkling blue eyes, a friendly smile, and a “hello” spoken with an English accent.

Soon after I sat down by the window looking out at the sweating pavement, I knew I had a friend. We had both pulled out books to read: I with my Faulkner, and he with something I can’t remember. But somehow neither of us read for the entire flight. We chatted like old friends the whole time. I loved listening to his voice (I always am a goner for the British), as he talked about his work and asked about my writing. He told me about his home in Manchester and how I’d love it there. He even introduced me to the work of Isabel Allende, a master storyteller whom I’ve enjoyed reading since then, and told me he would check out my website.

When we finally landed in Atlanta, I felt like the stress and the delay didn’t matter anymore because for once in my life I had a decent travelling companion. Most of the time it seems that my fate in flight is to always sit next to either cavemen, honeymooning couples, business men with newspapers, or old ladies who think they need to change my life. But as I ran (or rather, stumbled) down the corridors of the terminal to board my plane (which I did not miss), I felt grateful to have sat next to the Man from Manchester.

And in case you are wondering if this had any romantic connections at all, I must say you are sadly mistaken, considering that the M from M was approximately thirty or forty years older than me and decidedly out of the question. It was an hour of friendship, nothing more nothing less.