It Only Rains in September, Maybe

Standing on the corner of a busy Chinese street, I wait for a break in the traffic before crossing. My pink and purple portable umbrella hangs high above my head. It was a going away gift from home, and in my single month in Xi’an I have used it often. Standing on the corner, umbrella in hand, I curse the tiny triangular patch of breathable fabric on the toe of my tennis shoes. With each splash from the street, or drop from the sky I can feel the dampening of my cotton socks, and in that moment I remember that cotton is never a good idea in the rain.

Everything is harder when it rains. You start your morning to the sounds of the wet air urging you to stay in bed, cuddled under your blanket, head tucked tightly in your pillow’s crease; however, you must rise and persevere through the damp day. It seems that leaving the home always happens a little later as if your subconscious is slowing you down, delaying the muddy trek. Umbrella in hand, hood up or poncho on you go out, pant legs rolled or tucked safely away from the sodden ground. Head plastered down to aid in navigation around muddy puddles, for on dry days the dirty spots are easily avoided but today, on a rainy day, the muck and wet blend making it nearly impossible to skirt the grime.

All that being said your struggles, which come from that rain soaked day, are brilliantly rewarded; the day after the rain came. You awaken to find the sun peering through your window inviting you out on a new day. Your step is a little lighter as you prance through your morning rituals. The umbrella burden no longer needed, you step out into the daylight finding a surprising treat for your senses. Unlike the usual gray foggy cloud that greets you each morning, you see an astonishing glassy blue sky. White, a color forsaken by these dirty streets, swims through the sky as fluffy clouds riding the breeze. The morning’s gratitude is in this day, the sun is bright and elated to be out and shining for you. If you listen for a moment, past the city sounds, you can imagine the song birds singing, welcoming the clean breath of air that has floated in from some unknown village.

As if stolen from my hometown, that plush southern city with green leaves, blue skies and a sweet breeze, I take to the streets on this day breathing deeply, thankfully. Keeping my head up and my eyes wandering through to catch a glimpse of some other person who recognizes what a gift the rain has given us. A warm clear day that coils its way down to a crisply charmed night, I glance up at the rare stars poking there heads out to walk me home. I offer up a wish on their guiding light and welcome sleep so I may dream of more sunshine before tomorrow’s cloudy smoky day.