Rain pours down the city streets creating small floods down the hills and gullies. People are rushing to and fro, trying to avoid the puddles quickly becoming lakes. The circus has come to the city as they jump and skip, twisting their bodies in ways even contortionists would be impressed with.
As they try to shield themselves with umbrellas and over hangings the rain switches, pouring slant wise making even the most insulated of umbrellas obsolete. But still they struggle, trying to gain some coverage, channeling that feisty New York spirit. No one wants to say die, caving to Mother Nature’s fierce moods.
Fighting is futile, I realize. I shrug, what is a little monsoon on this spring day. I pause in the middle of Washington Square Park. I let the rain wash over me, the wind whipping it, this way and that. For a minute I smirk, as I think of Willow Smith’s song, “Whip it.” It is definitely that.
I might have the appearance of drowned rat, but I am not cold. Instead I am invigorated. It is one of the first warm days we have had, and at seventy-one degrees it is down right balmy. While others are scurrying for cover, I welcome it. I dance in it.
I am channeling my inner childhood. As a kid I remember playing outside even when it rained, jumping in the dirt quickly turning into streams of mud. Rolling around like I was a baby pig. Dirt, water, mud, none of it bothered me.
It was the innocence of a youth with no objections. Just the care freeness of the imagination.
Water can not hurt me, I am a mermaid any how. Clothes can dry out, hair can be brushed. But this moment only lasts but a moment. I savor the cleansing. It is washing away the old and bringing in the new. Letting all inhibitions slip away with the rain.
Pausing in the imperfectness yet utter perfection of Mother Nature’s rain.