Rainy day magic

I'm in the garden, sitting on my red folding chair under the rumbling belly of a sky that's about to be ruptured by a great downpour.

And everywhere I look is gloom, and shadows and mystery, and some great magician must had have his curious wand woven all over my little world, turning everything into a darker dark, and a greener green... and why is it that for that just short hiatus before a thunderstorm, the world gets tinted in such dark greens?   

Greens that are almost black. Deep greens full of beautiful and wonderful things... and the wind, too, is breaking havoc, breaking weak limps and scattering leaves all over, and it sounds like white noise everywhere, which is like silence but not empty. 

The winds are forcing the cotton trees to let go of some of their jewels, so I can later collect them off the ground and make me some cotton necklaces with it...  

Magic is everywhere around here, but you must see it with the eyes of the soul, or you won't. And thus, the witches of my woods are leaving behind portions of their hair, as they get it tangled up on branches and bramble, trying to escape from the storm that's brewing up.  

Oh and can you see that gnarled, darker tree among the lighter ones?  That's the holly from which Mr. Ollivander made Harry Potter's magical wand—eleven inches long, and yes, that same one with the single feather from the tail of a phoenix. That's just how magical this place is...

But oh dear me... we must hurry, friends!  Hurry hurry!  Voices whisper in the trees.  Can you not hear them?  We must leave immediately!  Shadows of a thousand years will be rising again unseen! Come on, follow me! 

It is no secret I love rain and rainy days... rainy days make me want to dream.  Rain is grace; rain is the sky descending to the earth, and I think I must had been procreated on a rainy day. Rain nourishes us from above, drenching us with a sorts of a magical soaking joy.

And I, too, would wait for the happy sound of the school bus that, everyday around three, would drove by our little white cottage, then stop at the top of the hill and, after making sure it is alright to go on, continue down the hill, and across our little white cottage where I'd be waiting with both arms stretched out, waving at the children, and waving at their happy racket and rejoicing, and my little heart would be one with them too, even when they are not aware of my presence, or would not see me waiving, or even know I'm always there waiting to see them go by in their happy yellow vessel...

In the house, one by one all the little lights are being turned on.  

I run outside again, and watch at how they look from the outside, the coziness they relay to the eye and the eye to the heart.  

Then, a new bout of joy would spiraled out again, and I want to dance with the wind and weave me a dress of rain. 

And of course, I then have to come to this my very special place on earth to dream—my blog, so I can document everything I feel, and see, and feel again, so I can re-live those moments again, and again and again... and share them with you!

Thank you for dreaming along!