After a full month without rain, the first drops touch my face. My heart relaxes. The rain comforts me and the fresh air purifies my mind. I need these grey, wet days to slumber and dream about nothing in particular. To run behind my thoughts and watch the grass grow.
The weather invites me to take it slow. The rain brings silence and deeply craved rest. A sigh of relief. Today, no walking couples, cycling families and motorcycle groups. The intelligent lockdown gave us time on our hands and turned us into a nation of leisure. But when it rains, we stay in. Those days are my favorite days to be out.
I read an article yesterday that praises the return of silence in our society. “When man is silent, nature speaks.” Very true. Suddenly there is room for the smallest, the negligent, the transient. “Calm days of yore, when the trees and the birds spoke to us.” I could have written it myself, but these words can trick us into a false sense of nostalgia; a wistful adoration of man’s return to nature by means of a crisis.
We are nature. All of us, our loud motorcycles included. I wake up from my dream and see my conscious mind for what it is: nature looking at its own creation. All of it. And then I see the beauty. Such beauty. And the birds and the trees speak to me.