Today, I was five years old again with a too big raincoat, splashing puddles with my black boots and feeling tiny between the cedar trees over hundreds of years old. When I looked up towards these grand woody dames, I saw the silver raindrops fall gracefully down like forest fairies daintily descending on my face.
I used to run out in the rain barefoot as a little girl and I loved the feel of the rain dribbling down my fingers, as if the water came from me. I would pretend I was the rain princess, bringing life to the parched lands and making flowers and trees grow again. I would spin around and around, imagining that the faster I spun, the more rain there would be, though of course, I later found out people have little control over what happens in the sky, or even on the ground for that matter.
I believe the rain are like the earth’s tears washing away the tears that humans have inflicted upon each other. I believe the rivers collect rainy tears and human tears together and the sea spins them into dancing waves that weave in and out on the land. Crying and raining happen in cycles, like with everything else in life.