acrylic on canvas
It has been raining for days. I might even say weeks. But I think that’s more of a subjective feeling. The grayness and the soothing patter of raindrops on the roof—a sound my mind recognizes as a call for calm and introspection. For baking fragrant cookies and drinking tea. (since I can’t go to Velebit).
One rainy day that winter, I set off for Tate’s cabin. The rain had been falling since I got out of the car, stripping the trees of their brown-gray color and giving them a wet shine. Have you noticed that specific dark color the bark of trees takes on when soaked by rain?
My wet fingers were freezing, and I shoved them into my jacket pockets while the raindrops trickled down my green hood. Everything had its rhythm. And its peace. Those frozen fingers calmed me. So did the cold raindrops. And the familiar sound of rain around me.
I have to admit, rain sounds the best when you’re in nature—it bounces off every stone, leaf, and branch… there are so many tiny “keys” to play its wet tone.
But then the music slowly stopped, and I turned towards the sea. The setting sun illuminated the wet reality around me, bathing me in its beauty. Gold, gold everywhere around me. And then darkness. And silence. No more rain, no more sun. Just frozen fingers and gold in my soul.