Drops Of Joy

Home is Where You Make It-8.png

Dear Reader,

Yesterday, I sat by a river in Northern, CA. I shed my shoes and dipped my toes in the icy water. Immediately, I was transported back to Washington State; to naked river dips on my dance teachers property; and to deep dives into the Pacific, sheltering myself beneath the waves as the rain came down. And just as these thoughts entered my mind, the rain came.

And I wrote. I wrote in the rain, and about the rain. With the goofiest grin on my face, filled with unexplainable joy.

As if often the case, I will share my writing with you, raw and fairly untouched.

May these words bring you joy, may they resonate with something deep inside of you and awaken parts of you that have long been asleep.

Today, rain kissed me

once again,

she bounced off my hands

and onto my journal pages.

Cold rain,

the kind I have not felt

in months.

She was not torrential.

like Florida rain.

She was not warm,

like Dallas rain.

She felt, instead, like

the rain of my childhood.

Rain that embraces asphalt

with such enthusiasm

she creates a scent

better than that of sex.

Rain that mixes with salt water

as she glides over your body

into Bellingham Bay,

and washes every ounce

of pain


Rain that reminds you

of dancing on chalk drawings

as they transform

and slink towards

rain grates

in a colorful mixtures.

Rain that chills you to the bone,

as you relive your Notebook moment

outside of the mall of your adolescence.

Rain that catches your tongue,

more familiar than falling snow.

The same rain

that left you soggy

and smiling

in your college lit class.

The same rain,

that turned your pony tail

into a sopping wet weapon

after late night runs in the rain

with your best friend.

This rain knows you,




than anyone

or anything.

This rain,

painted the sidewalks

of your childhood.

This rain,

pounded on your windshield

during 2 AM drives home

from your high school sweethearts’.

And this rain,

walked with you through the college campus

of your early adulthood.

Now, as you step back into this familiar rain,

she tentatively whispers

“You are home”

as she bounces

off your lobes.

Quiet, and slow,

as if she’s not sure,

you’ll take her back,

after all you’ve seen.

And though you haven’t told her yet,

the drops bouncing off

your skin

create a symphony

of welcome kisses,

of memories,

and comfort,

of familiar and welcome feelings;

and slowly,

they mix with new drops

falling off your cheeks.

You’re home,

and you would rather be here,

than anywhere else in the world.

In the Motherland,

blanketed in raindrops,

pine needles

and the songs

of rushing rivers.

Welcome me home rain.

I have arrived.

For the past nearly 7 months I have wandered away from the rain of my home, away from the familiar and into the unknown. And as I drive back along the coast I know so well, as I look out of the Pacific, and roll down my windows to gulp in the magical smell that has been with me my entire life, I am filled with such elation.

Wandering teaches you beautiful lessons.

And sometimes, these lessons include: how fucking amazing home can be.

I am jazzed to hunker down in the PNW for the sunny season, and catch the ever present raindrops that will so appropriately drop in and out.

May you wander where you are called, and may you know, your wandering mustn’t look like anyone else’s. Your journey is your own, and sometimes your journey will include some time in one place. This doesn’t make you any less worthy of the “Wanderer” title.

You are magnificent. You are worthy. And I love you, almost as I love the feeling of rain welcoming me home (hehe).

With love,