A rather nice change from the bone-rattling
cold we’ve been experiencing here in the District They Call Columbia—we’ve had
several days of rain. Rain means the temperature is above freezing; I like
above freezing. It’s especially nice because it hasn’t hit at a time when I had
to remember to carry an umbrella with me to work. (In all the years I’ve lived
outside of California, I’ve still never got into the habit of walking out of
the house armed with rain gear.)
Yesterday morning, I was listening to a piece
by Pleyel on WETA, when I looked up and saw something rather more than “rain”,
however. More like “downpour”. Viz.:
At one point you can hear some of the nature
drowning out Pleyel.
As I watched it chucking it down I was struck
by a sense of gratitude that I was safely inside my own home, dry and with the
thermostat set to 73°, on a day off work
where all I had to do was tidy up a week’s worth of paper accumulation and plan
for the workweek ahead. Laundry done, dishwasher running, food in the fridge, a
job for the moment and bills paid. And from that place of security I could
watch the deluge with the kind of fascination that only a native Californian
can feel.
I am not comparatively grateful for this, only
grateful in comparing the blessings I enjoy against those who are homeless,
hungry, jobless, struggling. I do not say, “Well, at least I’m not…” Because that’s not real gratitude to my mind,
only considering your condition of comfort in relationship to others less well
off. That’s a form of schadenfreude, and I see way too much of it in the world
around me.
No, I am just grateful that my little place of
security allows me to take pleasure in things like my birds at the feeders and the
wonder of a rainstorm.
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