Summer Rain Shawl

As a child, I dreamed of summer storms.

Growing up in northern California, my summers consisted of soaking my swimsuit in the sprinkler and rushing to the driveway to leave an ephemeral body print on the concrete; of running barefoot across the hot asphalt to my friend’s house and trying not to burn my feet; of the dark towels my mother put over the windows in the daytime to keep out the heat.

I wanted my summers to be cooler, wetter. I thought a summer storm would be the perfect antidote to the dry California heat, a backyard sprinkler writ large.

Having lived in Maine for a decade, the dozen or so summer storms take on a different role than I imagined as child, offering not an invitation to play, nor to hide, but to simply be still. After a stretch of hot sunny days, the plants in my garden welcome the rain. I follow their lead, raise my face to the heavens and drink it in.