“Some people feel the rain. Others just get wet.” ~ Bob Marley
It’s been raining. It’s been raining for two days.
And I’ve always loved the rain.
When I was a little girl, on rainy days at camp, we’d pile into the social hall with our sleeping bags and watch old movies. My favorites were the Gene Kelly movies, Anchors Away and Singin’ in the Rain. I worked for weeks on his move where he carries his black umbrella under the lampposts and clicks his heels mid-air, off to one side and then to the other.
It’s even been raining at yoga.
Rain has never kept me home and, apparently, it didn’t keep anyone else home the other night, either, when I found myself dripping among almost 70 people at yoga. The studio was packed. We lined up outside so the class before us could leave and, one by one, we waited to be checked in to enter.
Most people duck for cover in the rain, but I was happy to stand there.
Anne, come in, we’ve got you!
I heard my name called and looked up to see the front desk ushering me in from outside. I think they thought it was a favor, bringing me in from the rain!
Like two schools of fish, the lobby area seemed to swim in opposite directions. Drenched wet from the practice, people on the right moved to change and leave while those of us drenched wet from the rain moved left to enter.
That was when I felt the first drop on my head.
Seems the rain had made its way inside!
We set our mats close together, the room already hot and humid. I was not in my usual spot, near the front on the left and toward the door. The claustrophobia set in just a bit, and I briefly wished I was outside in the open air among the raindrops again.
The flow began and before the sweat even set in, I saw wet specks my mat. I assumed these were from the man next to me, sweating onto my mat. This happens at this studio. We practice so close to each other.
We flow into a low push up. Another drop, this time on my neck. I realize the water is coming from the ceiling.
We flow into Warrior I, and the man next to me whispers an apology for sweating on my mat. He thinks it’s him, too, but now I know the rain just followed me in.
Before I know it, I am lost to the practice and creating my own rain. I have watered my own mat and have started to slip and slide. I spread my towel overtop my mat for grip. It’s so hot that I am grateful each time the ceiling rains.
I love the rain in the morning, and I love the rain at night. If I’m inside, I can hear its soothing sound through the roof, on the skylights and on the windows.
We finish the class. We are all of us wet, the windows are wet, the floor is wet, my towel is wet.
I put on my over clothes, say goodbye and step out into the rain. I see others duck their heads and dash.
I take a few steps and stop to put my face up to the sky. I let the rain fall on me, looking up at the drops and then close my eyes to feel it on my face.
My water bottle is the only thing that’s dry at the moment, and I make my usual stop at one of the local shops that keeps some cucumber water on the counter. Everyone inside is smiling. And today, strawberries are floating in the pitcher instead of cucumbers.
It’s a good day. It’s a good night.
The rain is lit by the lampposts, and I step through the puddles just like Gene Kelly, only I’m carrying my yoga bag instead of his black umbrella.
Snow is supposed to come tomorrow, but that’s another story.
For now, I make my way back to the car, floating on that fine feeling from my practice.
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Ed: Kate Bartolotta
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