On rainy days

It started raining this morning after I had finished exercising at 6.30. Drops splattered on Eden and me when getting into the van. The morning commute was bombarded with screeching wipers, which probably means they need to be replaced. Walking from Hancher parking lot to the English Philosophy Building has painted my boots a deeper shade of brown, but the umbrella keeps me dry.

I love these days. Genuinely. I’m not being facetious, sarcastic, or snarky. Rainy days remind me that I’ve pursued a career I find deeply meaningful and keeps me out of the weather. A run in the cold or the rain is optional, but I don’t have to work in the elements. Having the option lets me feel like I have some control and that I’ve successfully exercised some control in getting here. To an extent, this pursuit has been “in my power” as Epictetus would say, though on close inspection it’s clear that the extent is small. Yes, I applied myself in elementary, middle, and high school, but I also had a family with a peaceful home life that allowed me the resources such as money, time, and opportunity to concentrate. None were in my power; just what I did in that space was in my power. Getting into college relied on the admissions people, and once there governmental aid in the form of FAFSA gave me the resources to make space to work. After my undergraduate work, I created the practice of translating daily; that was in my power. It kept up my Greek, but it was the luck of getting to take courses at the College of Charleston while teaching high school English and Latin that got me into the good graces of professors who wrote recommendations for me and made my application to graduate school enticing to two out of the five programs that received my application. In this entire pursuit, I have relied on others giving me access to opportunities. The only thing I had control of is what I did when I awoke, which depended on when I went to bed. I am fortunate to have parents who are hardworking, who’ve showed me what getting up early and loving life looks like, who value effort and process over product and accomplishments. I am very fortunate to have a wife who has encouraged me, adapted her life to our budget, and believed in me. Yes, I’ve done one thing that is essential: I’ve disciplined myself get up and go about doing the things I love before everyone else awakes. But that is a very small thing compared to the other pieces in this puzzle.

“How am I using what little I have?” is the question we all must answer. We live the parable of the talents.

Rainy days during the summer or on school breaks meant days off from work. Mini-holidays from laying brick and block with my father. Unscheduled, unreliable manifestations of leisure. I grew up in Florida and the Carolinas, both of which have brutal summers. Sweating begins when you step into the 90% humidity, which becomes a suffocating blanket of air in 95o. By noon, temperatures and humidity compete for the higher number. Sarasota does boast those regular afternoon showers, but they only lasted for a half-hour. Hurricanes and tropical storms are too inconsistent to anticipate and then you’re dealing with potential storm damage. The Carolinas, however, have seasonal rains: the “April showers bring May flowers” didn’t materialize out of thin air. And it just so happened that my gap year included El Niño with its luscious cascades of week-long rains in January, February, and March. My friend Stan and I would don our coolest attire and enjoy our leisure with a drive to Asheville or Spartanburg. I had ambitions to attend college, Stan to open his own coffee house. Rainy days provided space to feel like we were not going to work in construction for the rest of our lives, the time to acclimate ourselves to what we viewed as the finer things in life.

I lay my reading glasses beside my computer and look out my window on the fourth floor of EPB. A pine tree shakes its arms at me. He likes to think of himself as the Whomping Willow of the UI campus, but he only obscures my view of Hubbard Park and the Iowa Memorial Union. The wind has splattered the glass, combining water droplets that create fingers of water from their combined weight stretching to the pane. Bach’s cello suite plays in the background. The warmth of my office, the comfort of hot coffee, and the soft lamplight are what my rainy days now include. They continue to be a balm in my life, a therapy that reminds me of what was, is, and may continue. These are pleasures I don't take for granted.

The rainy days in construction began with questions. Is it raining too much to work? How long is it predicted to rain? What do we do for now? Dad was known to build shelters to continue working. An eave might provide a ledge to hang plastic on that then stretched over scaffolding. Or he might take us to a job where we could work indoors, such as a fireplace or chimney that was pressing but not priority. Rainy days created that variable. Sometimes, he had equipment to work on in shop, and when I later had bills and was trying to save money for grad school I would look to spend these hours working. But that would be a less simple life chapter. No, those early days when I had only myself, it seemed, to concern knew the joy of a day off while oblivious to the privilege of getting an education in working with my hands. It was a simpler time for a simpler me.

I stop. I’m in a thinking position, my chin resting on the crook I've created with my thumb and fingers. The tension of lesson planning, grading, and remembering the rainy days of my youth creates a momentary state of equilibrium. It’s the sweetness of the memory mixing with the privilege of the moment that I seem to be relishing, like a hiker who pauses to wonder at how far he’s climbed the mountain. There’s much behind and much ahead, but for now there’s reason to ponder the liminal state of becoming, that razor’s edge where decisions are made and life occurs. 

I often ask my students what they would prefer to do on a rainy day. The overwhelming answer is "Sleep," or some associated idea “take a nap” or “get back into bed.” I get it. It’s not just that they have zero responsibilities beyond themselves and their work but that this moment in class needs an antithesis and sleep, bed, a nap is readily available. They’re not lazy; just human.  

Rainy days, because of my life situation—a thirst for personal time and a past that loved the promise a rainy day held—bring another level of energy for me. My preference would be finding a table in the upstairs café of Prairie Lights or the second floor of the Iowa City Public Library and having the day to write. I'd write for fun, write until I didn't know what else to think, and then read others' writings, their thoughts—connections between them and their world. I'd buy food when hungry, nap when exhausted, write when waking. If I could spend my day as I wish. Rainy days encourage such dreaming because they see the usual being displaced. What we thought we could do today is challenged or changed.  

"Let's mix it up a little," is what a rainy day tells me.

 I finished my grading, planned my lessons, and taught my class. To "mix it up" at the rainy day's bidding, I decide to spend a half-hour writing at Prairie Lights to close out the day. The walk from EPB to Prairie Lights is chilly. The rain itself has paused, but the walks are damp, and the breeze cuts into my sweater and shirt more than I anticipated. I encounter fewer people on the walk than I anticipated, which works to my advantage, I see, when I arrive at the bookstore. What else do people want? I think as I slide through the doors and find the stairs. Two are in the overstuffed chairs to the left as arrive on the second level, but most of the tables are open. I order a small "fast cup," as the menu calls it, and nestle into a seat at a table that spans the front of the café overlooking Dubuque Street. The Deadwood and Sports Column bars face me, guarding pedestrians in the heart of the town. A sigh is set free. None tells me I'm not paying them enough attention. None accuses me of enjoying my day too much. There's me, my writing space, and a dozen people or so who don't want anything to do with me for several hours.

Is this heaven?