There's something about Irish rain. It isn't like Arkansan rain. See, in Arkansas, we learn to fear the rain. Rain is malevolent, hurtful. Rain in Arkansas is something to be wary of. It brings floods and lightning and fearsome storms.
Where Arkansan rain is death, Irish rain is life.
It is a misting, a gentling, a soft hand caressing the face. Though it can be a nuisance, I've never once feared the rain here in Ireland. It's a benevolent presence, making green everything it touches. In and under Irish rain, I am taken in. Absorbed. I am one with my heart, with my hopes and desires.
Irish rain inspires me. It inspires pensive thoughts, gentleness, peacefulness, nonviolence. Irish rain is the love in my heart, unrequited and sleeping. Dormant. It softens the earth. Irish rain is mystical. Walking through it is like walking through a dream. Vision is mellowed. Everything smells clean.
When I live in Arkansas, I don't particularly like the rain.
In Ireland I love it.
I wrote that in my journal less than two months ago.
And oh, how I wish the rain here were more like Irish rain.
I. Hate. Arkansan. Rain.