Exactly two weeks shy of two years ago and living on that
dark island, I submitted an essay to a prominent journal about the specialness
of a sunny day there: how rare, how exotic, how cherished.
Now I live in another place. Dry. Desert-like. Sunny
almost always. And I am writing an essay about the specialness of a rainy day
here: how rare, how exotic, how cherished.

My bamboo chimes sound as the rain brings a breeze, and I
listen carefully to a profoundly moving memory of something I cannot seem to
identify but which I can feel in the deepest, darkest place in my gut; it knows
me by name.
I listen to the pouring rain on grass, another un-nameable
sound and I am suddenly aware of the word “kiss.” When I let go the sounds of
dripping gutters, raindrops splatting into puddles, torrents striking the tin
roof, what I hear is a very tiny kissing sound like lips on skin, but instead: raindrops
on grass blades.

I am singing praises for rain in this arid warm
usually-bright sunny place, just as I sang praises for sun’s warmth in the
other usually-gray misty place.
Both please me.
As the rain pours into the pores of this soil, saturating
and feeding and creating songs of wet bliss, I am called back to myself. Just
for today. And when the sun returns with its enveloping warmth, I will be
called back to myself then too.
All blog images created and/or photographed by Jennifer J. Wilhoit unless otherwise noted.