Rain

"Into each life some rain must fall" came to mind during the rain last night.  I looked it up, remembering a song in the 50s, and found that that phrase actually goes all the way back to American poet, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 180 years ago. 

In my childhood, I probably never read the actual Longfellow poem, but I knew that phrase.   Carlene and Mimi both had books of poems and aphorisms (Leaves of Gold) and I loved reading them--so I may have encountered this line in one of their books.  Ella Fitzgerald and the Ink Spots popularized the words of Longfellow, but we've all heard variants of it. 

Rain in this poem signifies dark and bleak.  By the time he was 35, the poet had lost his first wife to a miscarriage and his second wife to a fire.  

Yesterday's tragedy in Texas was the largest and most terrible school shooting in Texas history. Most Texans would never use the analogy of rain (or even storms) to describe horror.  We live in a place that knows drought and extreme heat, and rain is something we always welcome.  When it rains, especially after weeks of triple-digit days, we meet each other in the streets and stores and comment on the rain: "How about this rain?" strangers say to each other.  "Oh, we really needed this!" we say. 

When I used to visit Minnesota, people always commented on their gratitude for the sunshine.  Texans take sunny days for granted, at least in terms of weather. 

In spite of the unthinkable horror of yesterday, it also brought different kinds of rain and showers to me: 

Jan sent Lorraine and me a 2014 essay by Roger Angell written at the age of 93. "This Old Man," re-published at his death last week at 101,  is about the perils (and pleasures) of aging. 

In response, Lorraine wrote these two beautiful lines: "I feel my age more and more. I also feel spurts of renewal, wisdom, connection, wholeness and letting go."

Two gifts of writing felt like invigorating rain,  in spite of everything.

My day had begun with a painful flare of sciatica.  Freda came to give Luci a walk--another shower of goodness. Luci met  Freda with whimpers of pleasure and delight at the prospect of walking together.  

Later, Bonnie brought me soup for dinner and stayed to visit.  We watched the news of the Uvalde shootings in horror, and we also talked of happier things--like her upcoming trip to Vermont. 

What would we do without the showers that come from friendships, every single day?

As I was about to close this piece, I saw a remarkable thing in the news.  

As our governor, surrounded by people who share his point of view, was waxing on about the tragedy, sending smug promises of prayers, blaming the murders on mental illness, Beto O'Rourke appeared out of the assembly of people to confront our arrogant supported-by-NRA governor.  I couldn't hear all of O-Rourke's words, but it included the word, predictable!

He was called a "son of a bitch" who only wanted to make it political--while the governor and his men doggedly stuck to the mental-illness narrative, avoiding any mention of the easy access to guns.   Beto was ordered to leave, but he continued talking to his supporters outside.

What a brilliant courageous expression of his right to freedom of speech--a downpour of truth!  In a nation that has more guns than people and more school murders than any other, it's obvious that unless people in power have the courage to name the real causes, these horrendous shootings will (predictably) continue to shatter us all.

Meanwhile, off our governor and his followers will go--to the NRA Convention in Texas. They will yammer on and on about "abortion as murder."  But they will do little if anything to protect living children in classrooms. 

In this drought of truth-telling, Beto danced us some rain!