Walking in the Rain

I first learned about Poetry in kindergarten. Poetry with a capital P is more than hearing a poem or memorizing a poem. Real Poetry is like soft rain in the desert, refreshing to the soul.

Our classroom had about thirty desks, arranged in social clusters of six students each. That day, our language workbooks were open to a drawing of a kangaroo flying a kite. The kangaroo was surrounded by other things starting with K, which happened to be our letter of the day.

My classmates eagerly raised their hands to name things in the picture starting with the letter K. Instead, I scrutinized the picture for something my classmates might miss. For each letter of the alphabet, I had hoped the illustrator might sneak some unexpected thing into the picture. And this time, I’d found it. The kangaroo was wearing a collar. Who would put a collar on a kangaroo? It looked ridiculous. It must be spelled with a K.

When Ms. Greenthorn encouraged any last volunteers. I raised my hand and proudly said, “Collar!” 

“I’m sorry Jonafree, collar starts with a C. That’s a tricky one, it does start with the K sound. Anyone else?”

My disappointment in the book’s illustrator was deep. Still, I continued to look for treasure in my workbooks. My little soul felt like it was starving. I believed these books were created just for students. There must be something good inside.

Another day in the same classroom, we were studying English again. On the left, one-third of the way down the page was a piece of prose that read:

I love to walk in warm rain

And get wetter and wetter

That’s strange, I wondered to myself. Does anyone like to walk in the rain? Isn’t rain always cold and unpleasant? How can anyone love the feeling of warm rain?

I sensed there was something about the rain I was missing, something beautiful that the author had seen and I had not seen. I longed to understand it better. 

Watching for Rain

Whenever it rained, I would stop to consider if it was warm rain. I learned to enjoy the unpredictable feeling of raindrops hitting my skin. I watched the people in the rainy streets to see if any of them were in love with the rain. Most of them seemed annoyed and rushed to get indoors, but not all of them. I continued to watch for warm rain. 

This patience was rewarded years later at a run-down strip mall along a busy highway. Mom, Gramma and I could hear the drumming of light rain as we left the store. Mom and Gramma put on ponchos beneath the covered walkway as I put on my blue windbreaker. Could this be warm rain? The day was hot, the humidity was intense. A light wind wafted the pleasant smell of wet stone and a trace of gasoline vapor to my nose. 

Keeping my hood down, I rushed into the parking lot before Mom could stop me. Raindrops pattered gently on my head. Coolness washed down my face. The oppressive heat was suddenly pleasant. I looked at the people rushing by with their umbrellas and coats. I certainly would have been like those people. I would have missed this experience if I had never read that poem. Yes, I could learn to love warm rain.

Mom caught up and asked why I was getting wet. What could I answer? I’m finally part of a poem? That would sound crazy. I’m answering a mystery that I’ve been unraveling for years? No, then I’d need to explain myself. I replied simply, “The rain is nice. I’m enjoying it.”

Back to the Present

Sometimes in late summer, I still cast off my rain jacket again and stroll through the warm rain. The experience transports my memory back to that strip mall. But each time, the smells and sensations of the wind and rain are different. Those differences bring me back to appreciation of the present. Each time, my gratitude for the present makes it feel richer than any memory. Maybe that’s what the poet was trying to say all along – a little gratitude and warm rain grounds us in the joy of the present, where we’re meant to be.

This story is based on actual events, with slight embellishment. The character names have been changed to protect their real-life counterparts.