On a rainy Sunday

It is raining, and I can hear thunder rumbling in the distance. I love the voice of thunder and gray dark days.  Here in the south, rainy days mean the darkening of all that's green and lush, and the woods turning into a sorts of night, and birds and little creatures scurrying away... where, oh where do they go and, where are their dwelling places? 

Inside the house little lights are turned on everywhere.  We made ourselves some papaya milkshakes, and both of us went our separate ways in the house; to do just what each love.  I'm sitting by the window writing, and contemplating what evolves outside while I listen to Nature's music and try to secrete it somewhere in my soul.  The Fisherman reads and works on his emails.  

When rain stops, or when it's just a splish-splash of a light drip drip drip, up would come from the ground all those rain ghosts—a faint fog that would lift from the road up the hill, and from people's roofs, and you would see these light-headed, misty ghosts walk away in little dances... moving, shifting until disappearing in thin air... rain, and fog—a most lovely of combination, that only happens here in the south.  

I am going through some old photographs on my computer and I just had to post some pictures I took in 2014 when we moved to our little white cottage and our living room was a hotchpotch of colors and gypsy pillows.  It has changed a lot since, but I still find this decorating style fascinating, and if I have the courage to change things again, I would bring back all that gypsy goodness and make my living room gay and colorful again.  For now, it will be as is—the black and white more modern approach that I so love too.  

I am now going to put on my rain boots and go outside into my rainy garden for some magical time.... I wish we could turn into fairies, or into tiny Thumbelinas and go play together in the rain for a bit!  Wouldn't that be nice!   

I hope you're having a beautiful Sunday, wherever you are!