Rain

Sometimes, all it takes is a small amount of rain.

Laburnum, the golden rain tree

This spring, we went more than six weeks without rain in Switzerland. The vegetation along the sides of the gravel road I walk looked August dusty. Rainfall is usually generous in March and April; this year, I watered those plants coming into blossom, the cherry tree, the rhododendrons—the azaleas and tsutsusi—the lilac and current bushes, and the flowers, the peony, lilies, and roses. The lawn didn’t need mowing.

But rain.

Cool days followed summer-like weeks. To be sure, we enjoyed having meals outside, an occasional grill, and frequent naps in the sun. To be sure, I enjoyed watching the lizards who’ve colonized our deck, and who sun themseves in view of my desk. I even came across two slowworms, rescuing one from a neighbor’s cat.

My husband said, “Is it just me, or is there more birdsong?” (Songbirds have colonized the shrubbery outside our bedroom window—and he likes to sleep in on a weekend morning.)

There is more birdsong. And my watering (most precious resource) saved our struggling plants. But now that the rain has fallen, every living thing has bolted out in relief and joy—and a trust that the world has righted itself again.

You understand the allegory, of course.

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