Today is all blue skies and sunshine. Yesterday was grey and rainy and exactly the way I remember fall in England. My son, Marshall can't stand dark days; he says they make him want to do nothing. "Days like this are depressing," he said. Marshall has not been depressed a day in his life and I doubt he has it in him. But gloomy days make him less active and more prone to grumbling, as if the sky is a too-low ceiling and he has to duck his head.
Scott called me from his cell phone on his way home from work and I suggested we all go for a walk before a late dinner. He said, "Tomorrow is supposed to be sixty and sunny, much better walking weather. Today is so wet and cold."
I admit that I've enjoyed the blocks and slivers of sunlight playing on the living room floor and stretching across the walls these past few weeks, as we move into spring. But there's nothing like a steady drizzle and an unremitting blanket of grey pulled over the earth to draw me in; I yearn for long solitary walks along winding country roads and through soggy fields, my face growing dewy and my hair springing obediently into tight, frizzy curls.
Overcast days suit me. I'm low-keyed, easy-going, melancholic; not loud, flashy or manic like sunny days. Sunshine is wonderful and warm, and when I see it, unexpected, I feel a small jump of life inside my chest. But rain is the thing that feeds me; rain feels like coming home.