One day it started raining, and
it didn't quit for four months. We been through every kind of rain there is.
Little bitty stingin' rain... and big ol' fat rain. Rain that flew in sideways.
And sometimes rain even seemed to come straight up from underneath. Shoot, it
even rained at night...
-Forest
Gump
As I sit through yet another rainy
afternoon, I reflect on the many types of rain, and their corresponding
seasons that I have experienced in my brief time here. Japan is not always rainy, but there is a
reason umbrellas appear so frequently and play such a significant role in their
history, literature, and entertainment.
I arrived in summer, the end of the
rainy season. Even before the heavens opened up, it felt like you were underwater.
Cicadas seemed to be the only things alive, their voices carried on the
palpable air. You could watch the storm
build, white clouds piling higher and higher against clear blue skies. Like the ice cream you were too hot to move
for, but desperately wanted. Then, in
the afternoon a gust of wind would suddenly clear the hot stuffy air and you
knew it was time. If you were outside,
you dashed for the nearest building. If
you were inside, you just settled in to watch and listen. The rain was the only thing loud enough to
drown out the cicadas. Soon the roar
would subside then die out all together.
For a brief moment the air would be cool and fresh before the heat started
to rise again and the whole process repeated.
I am not sure exactly when the
rainy season ended, but summer turned to fall and the downpours subsided. Now the rain came slower and colder. It lingered for hours when it came, keeping
you inside, forcing you to acknowledge the coming winter. Rainy days were few, but they made you
shockingly aware of how unprepared you were for being cooped up all
winter. Fall rain smelled of tatami and
damp leaves. Heavy and rich. Sticking to your hair and clothes. Filling your head with memories of
summer. But where the stifling heat of summer
had driven you out into the rain, the cool breezes of fall encouraged you to
stay indoors with a cup of tea and a good book, listening to the gentle patter
of rain on the window. This was a time
for naps, day dreaming, and being alone.
Winter rain was the worst. A cold that seeps into your very bones, even
if you don’t get wet. Clouds hung low, concealing
the tops of mountains and skyscrapers. It seemed the sun was gone for good as one
rainy day bled into another. Dampness
clung to everything, even your soul, as the endless drizzle washed away the
very colors around you. Winter rain was
a world of grays. People shuffled with
heads down under black umbrellas. You dreaded
being outside, but it seemed the rain could even follow you inside through
single pane windows and thin walls. The
smell of wet wool swirled around you as the wind tugged at your umbrella. You prayed for spring fearing it would never
come.
But eventually the rain grew less
cold. The sun returned. Spring was coming. The days of endless rain somehow seemed more
hopeful. Maybe it was the fact they
happened less frequently. Maybe it was
because in the brief moments between rains, you could feel the air getting
warmer and warmer until the rain was no longer cold at all. You lingered in the showers, rather than rush
on to the next building. You felt
yourself growing, just like the buds on the trees and the bulbs still under the
ground. You soaked up the warm rain and
your soul began to bloom with the spring.
The smell of fresh earth. The
first bird songs ringing through rain cleaned air. Where winter rain bathed the world in grays,
spring rain intensified the colors around you.
Greens were greener, reds redder, pinks pinker. Raindrops clung to new flowers like jewels
sparking in the sun. Everything felt
fresh and clean. The staleness of winter
melted away in the warm rain, soaking into the ground to give strength to new
life.
The days grow longer and
hotter. The cicadas start to sing. You watch the first summer storm building in
the distance.
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