I own an umbrella.
I am entirely not sure why I own one, as I rarely use it.
Umbrellas have a tendency to block the rain.
This is a quality that I deplore.
I like the rain.
I like the feeling of water, wind, and other sundry elements enveloping me in a universal embrace. I love pressure of a minor tempest trying to blow me around. I wish that it could blow around, maybe carry me away to some exciting adventure. Or, at the very least, keep me from going about a humdrum day.
Umbrellas only get in the way.
When there is a delightfully strong gust of wind, umbrellas will only turn inside out anyway.
And, in general, umbrellas are such useful, pragmatic things. Again, neither virtue do I find attractive. Such things are usually lacking in both aesthetic value and romance.
But I discovered that books are not as happy as I am about prancing about through storms than I am. Nor are they sufficiently protected in my cloth book bag.
So for the sake of my beloved books, I bought an umbrella. It is a cute umbrella. Small and compact, and printed with an almost charming design.
But it stays in my car, waiting for the school days when I must dash from building to building in an effort to protect my scholarly possessions.
Instead, when it does rain, I have tradition of running out into the thick of it.
I prance about, and skip, and cavort, and dance on my tip toes. I spread my arms out and spin around. I seek out the deepest puddles and jump in them.
(In this part of Texas, the streets have been apparently designed to flood, so there are a few quite glorious mini-Danubes to provide splashing pleasure.)
My housemates have come to the point where will perk up and look at me expectantly whenever it begins to sprinkle. They scarcely even try to resist my invitation to go out and play.
We have had few fun walks, meandering through rain-washed and shiny suburban streets, hugging lonely trees, remarking on the living rooms of our neighbors who forgot to draw their curtains. (Urania like to bring her umbrella, but our other housemate will usually frisk about with me through the glorious downpour.)
We usually prance around, hop in puddles, and end by traipsing through the statue garden to visit the Goddess of Golden Thighs. She does not seem to mind the weather either.
There is an odd kind of thrill and delight to be found in stormy weather! One that is all the more wonderful when met head on, running out to embrace the awful beauty.
Like Mrs. Whatsit, Wild Nights are my Glory!
Unfortunately, it is not raining right now. I shall be content to sing with Feste! Hey, ho! The wind and rain!