Just a Rainy Day

It is a rainy day at the beach.  Nice.  Nice for me anyway.  Because I know it will stop.  And I know where all the leaks are in my house.  And I can make a wish on the rainbow that will most certainly arrive in an hour or two.  Plus, I already had my yoga practice. And I walked the dogs on the beach in between storms with no one except us and the drift wood, lots of it.  It seems to come from everywhere: whole trees, parts of trees, parts of buildings and parts of ships.  Each piece talks to me if I stop to look closely, if I don’t run from the rain.  Each piece tells a story with its barnacles, the moss and the places where it has been worn smooth by, I imagine, the reef and the waves.  Today, they are there, like the tourists usually are, resting on the shore and glistening in the salt and the intermittent sun.  They disappear often, taken to other places by the sea or by ambitious artists here.  Then, I miss them, wishing I had been the one with the strength to carry them home to my workshop. But often, after while, they resurface like the tourists generally do. But I fail to recognize them until I nearly trip over them and then say hello.  Or I fall into them and then stop, look closely and perhaps listen to a story.  I love a rainy day at the beach.  I know it is only one day and that I make a new friend.