For me, time always seems to stand still on a rainy day. It’s an illusion, I know, but on a long, grey, misty day, with spells of gentle rain, drops streaking and running down the windows and spray from passing vehicles splashing up onto the sidewalks and pedestrians hunched under umbrellas or hoods or newspapers over their heads, the flow of continually alternating sunshine and dark is interrupted. Imagine a measure of rest in a score of music, and over the rest mark a fermata. That’s how it feels. Suspended pause. A time to move slowly from task to task rather than rushing or being rushed.
Time to stop and look at raindrops on a new begonia. To breathe in the scent of lilacs. To notice and appreciate part of a spiderweb on a fading plum blossom and the short, fragrant life of wild choke cherry blooms.
It was a quiet day at the bookstore on the rainy Tuesday following the holiday weekend. I moved some furniture, hung a picture, put together a book order, drafted a press release. Sold a few books and visited with a few friends. Finished the new Elizabeth Buzzelli mystery -- on the edge of my seat to the last page!
|Fun new sign|
Sarah was her usual patient self all day. She hasn’t voiced an opinion about our new open sign, the red paw in the window, but then, she’s a quiet dog. Rarely barks and never whines. She’s always up for adventure when it beckons and company when it’s available, but she’s fine with quiet hours and days, too.
|Through the rain-hazy front window on Tuesday afternoon|