my confession and a memory.

On average, it rains 200 days per year in England. Over that two-hundred or so days, it rains more than 30 inches.

I love rain. I love the way it sounds, the way it feels, even the way it smells. I love rolling thunder and waiting for giant webs of lightening to cover the sky. The damp, earthy smells that rise during the rain make me feel happy and alive.

Many of my childhood memories include rain. Or snow. But mostly rain.

The first time I realised how much I love the rain, I was four or five years old. It was one of those sticky summer nights, where the humidity is hanging in the air. Suddenly, a crisp breeze came through the window and cut through my bed sheet. I remember shivering, tingling like I had just swallowed minty ice cream. There was a growling and grumbling sound from the sky; thunder. CRACK! Lightening lit up the sky and the yard. Rain hurled from the sky soaking everything. The thunder and lightening continued. I lay in my bed and watched intently. I wanted to be closer.

I climbed out of bed, brushed the toys from my bedside table, climbed back onto the bed, and stepped gingerly on the top of the table. I had to stand on the table to see out of my windows! The small rectangular windows were two thirds of the way up my bedroom walls and only a foot high. I needed to inspect the storm more closely and my bedside table was the best tool for the job.

Standing on the table, peering out of the window, I stood for what seemed like hours, admiring the storm. Just as quickly as it came, it was gone. I stood on the table, looking out of the window, willing the storm to come back. When it did not, I reluctantly climbed down and into bed.

Still, decades later, I have a love affair with rain and storms. If bad storms are predicted, I wait almost impatiently for their arrival. I sit in the window, watching, occasionally narrating what is happening. If I am caught out in a storm and I feel it is safe (little/no lightening), I will sometimes just keep walking in it until I am soaked. Soaking in rainwater, droplets running off my nose and eyelashes and hair is my agnostic confessional. Except I don't have to talk or repent. The rain just washes everything away for me.