Rainy Day Woman

I live in Southern California, our nation's Vacationland.  Pristine skies, just-right temperatures, beaches dotted with bikinis, surfers crossing the street in wetsuits.  Life is simple here:  walk outside and find your bliss. 

As a girl from Iowa, THIS is heaven.  I don't miss driving white-knuckled in the crunching snow, sliding sideways at every stop.  I don't miss shoveling the driveway, sometimes twice a day.  I don't miss the wind-chill factor, the snowplows, the frozen toes, the  freezing winds howling across the prairies that make me cry and freeze my tears simultaneously.  Nope.  Not one bit.  Do I really have to visit at Christmas? 

It never snows here.  And we all know it never rains in California.  But, yes, it really does pour.  Sometimes for days.  Buckets of rain.  Puddles up to your shins.  Roadways closed because there's suddenly a river running through it.  People's shoulders droop.  They get upset;  I turn on my oven.  I'm an Iowa girl deprived of her hibernation.  I want to nest, hunker down, envelop myself in a blanket and snuggle, and suddenly it's raining!  I gather my babies in the glow of my kitchen.  We turn on the music, and the hum of little hands sifting, mixing, and whisking pushes out the gray and blankets my home in cozy.  My crockpot comes out of hiding and bubbles with stews, roasts, curries.  We have soup for dinner.  We eye the pile of brownies.  We decorate cookies just because we have sprinkles.  We sing and dance in our cave of blankets  while the pouring rain cleanses the dust off our desert.

Rainy days don't bring me down.  They are an opportunity:  A good book in my lap.  Children screaming with glee through the house.  The smell of simmering lentil soup. Muffins stretching up for tomorrow morning.

Here comes the sun.  It's all right.  Out we go back into our world...