8th Moanin' of Christmas

June 28, 2010

Greetings from Rain Man,

Yesterday Harrison said, “I hope it rains tonight.  I sleep better when it rains at night.”

My first thought was to wonder how he could possibly sleep better than he does.  When Harrison goes to sleep, it looks like a crash landing of an ironing board in a field of blankets.  He sleeps so hard that his hair is permanently shaped like the skid into the pillow.

I have seen no signs that anything interrupts his sleeping.  When I rouse him in the morning, which is the only reason he does not sleep through dinner, he wakes up as if he is returning from a different dimension.

But he speaks the truth.  And in this we are united.

There is this perfect time, this season between seasons, in this month of my birthday, this month that poets dream of when looking at the moon.  It does not always happen, but there is a magic that is possible as the earth rolls over slightly to allow just enough sun, just enough of everything, to make life worth being awake for, and sleeping in.

Outside tree limbs, newly dressed in spring attire, brush the air to create the sound against the dark.  Wind chimes compete for attention, the blinds vibrate, humming against the screen.

There is a sound, soft and reassuring, a gentle exhale from the world, the first mists of rain tune the leaves and shoots and branches for the music to come.  Along with this, the sound of far-off thunder, like someone dropping boulders into a large steel box. 

Feeling the slight mist from the rain that fights through the screen, a spray of perfume from the unseen clouds.  It carries a smell, earthy and green, a reminder of every summer rain since the first one.

This perfect season of open windows.  And the rain begins.  Not the ‘April showers bring May flowers’ rain.  This is a summer rain, sent by the rain department to cool us and water things we are trying to grow.  And to lull us to sleep

On the periphery, on the horizon of sleep, there are all of the things that wait to disturb you.  The oil spill.  The economy.  Political turmoil.  Family tangles.  The doctor’s report.  The work you didn’t finish.  These specters wait in the dark for some sign of you stirring at 1:42 a.m. so they can prod you into full, anxious, wakefulness. 

But then there is this rain, this gentle soporific, sent from nature to guide you back to innocent sleep.  Safe, no side effects. No long disclaimer warnings telling you to consult your doctor.  Just sleep until you wake. Rain.

The breeze moves into the room, and you stretch your feet under the sheets to find the cooler spot.  You can be ten years old on the first day of summer vacation.  Pull the sheet up under your chin, push your head a little deeper into the pillow.  Just let the rain take you back to sleep.

Not a threatening rain.  Not a gully washer, or cats and dogs, or coming down in buckets. Not the kind of rain that convinces your sump pump to commit hari-

kari just to spite you and worry you next time.  Not the rain to keep you awake. 

Just rain.  Light staccato on the leaves, drops pattering and answering each other.  If you squint your ears a little it sounds like polite applause.   Good job, David, good sleeping.  

The rain sluices along the gutters and downspouts, drips from the eves, splashes on leaves, gurgles and giggles against the house.  It whispers, a soothing lilt, teasing you back toward sleep.  Deep, reckless, unreserved sleep.

Rain is an interruption for me most of the time.  It is the spoiler of car washes, of early morning runs or family picnics.  But in the summer night it is welcome, refreshing and restful.  Harrison, that Renaissance man, that wise, patient master of sleep, reminded me to listen and smell and feel the rain again.  And sleep.

Hope this finds you dreaming of rain,

David

Copyright © 2010 David Smith