Rain Dancing

Last week it rained. A lot. It actually kept us inside for about three days straight with only glimpses of fresh air when the door opened and shut. On the last day of this rain spell Isis pleaded to go outside. I quickly responded in mom-mode and told her it was wet and rainy. Then I realized that answered sucked.

There is a small sign that hangs in the doorway of our kitchen. It reads, Life is not waiting for the storm to pass, it is learning how to dance in the rain. I usually apply this figuratively, but I decided to take it literally on this particular day.

I have a very vivid memory of a particular adventure I took with my father. I was probably about eight years old. It involved my father, my brother, a dreary day, wet grass, mud puddles, sliding, splashing, laughing, falling, mud, no filth, and then a family shower. I realized this was one of my best childhood memories and that Isis and I simply must go rain dancing.

We searched for the biggest and deepest puddles we could find. She splashed timidly at first, almost as if to ask permission. But after the first drips of water reached up above her blue boots, she danced like an uninhibited hippie at a Grateful Dead show. Her feet and legs and bottom moved so fast that I laughed out loud. She darted to new puddles and danced until her socks and pants and legs and boots and coat were soaked. She was wet and dirty and cold and happy and refreshed and filth has never looked so beautiful.