Can Rain Build Memory?
This is the rainy season here in Florida. Many grumble and complain. Not me.
I’m scheduled for a few much need vacations days next week. Though I have no scheduled plans of travel or activities, I’m thrilled to be off the day job for a while. My sister mentioned that it was supposed to rain most of the week. This doesn’t bother me. I plan on getting quite a bit of writing done, and what better way to write than through the sounds of tropical rains and rumbling thunder.
And I have another reason not to mind the rain.
It reminds me.
We grew up in the suburbs which, back then, resembled more of a country feel than suburbia. We lived in an old, gray, two story Victorian-style house with white columns at the front, and a large porch that wound around two sides. We had a decent spread – a corner lot – surrounded by tall hedges along the property line, with
shorter hedges along the front and road side. We had fruit trees – apple and pear, if I remember right – and a large grapevine that gave the largest purple grapes I’ve ever had to this day. Two large weeping willows shaded the house; one in the front and the other by the master bedroom.
The master bedroom was a large extension to the right on the first floor. In the summer months, my mother – a beautiful, elegant French woman with as beautiful a name – liked to sit in that master bedroom when the sun went down. The window by her bedside, propped up with the older slider screens of days gone by, looked out to a paved country road about thirty feet from the house obscured by the short hedges that also hid the narrow ditch on the far side.
Crickets and Spring Peepers mixed with the grey tree frogs and provided a beautiful yet mysterious nightly serenade.
I’m a young girl of about five. A moderate rain falls with the low rumble of a distant thunder. I need comforting.
I wander through the halls of the second floor, down the stairs, through the foyer, and across to the master bedroom. I push open the creaky door and peer inside. She sits in the darkness, my guardian angel, with only the soft red glow from her cigarette to light the room and cast a warm, pink hue around her heart-shaped face.
I approach, knowing I’m always welcome. She pats the bed and I shimmy up to sit beside her, resting my head in the crook of her arm. Together we sit in peaceful silence. I lay there in the safety of her arms and watch the gentle swirl of smoke dance lightly through the screen and disappear as spirits into the darkness. The rains begin to still, and the gentle beat of her heart joins the symphony of the night. I sigh, and moments later, I’m asleep.
I’ve known no greater peace…then or now.
I use this memory in my mediations. It builds peace, tranquility, calm, and focus.
Do you have a favorite peaceful memory? Please share.
Don’t be surprised if you see this memory pop up in my work-in-progress, a psychological thriller about two young women traumatized as children by a psychopath. There may even be a contest question or two about it. J Just front row information.
Have a blessed and peaceful day.