Hot summer night. Storms rolling in. Rain pelting down so hard at times cars pull to the side of the road until the drivers can see the cars in front of them. Driving to ASL class, avoiding the Mass Pike, working my way through Boston on the way to Allston. Just past Boston University the rain is now a soft drizzle, more space than wet. At a stop light two young women in tank tops and shorts start to cross the street when the heavens open up and water pours down, drenching them instantly. Long hair plastered to her back, one looks up into the sky, arms slightly behind her and then she lifts her arms over her head and dances across the street, twirling in the water, splashing in the puddles, face raised to the wet.
Instantly, I am transported. She’s given herself over to the experience. She’s giving herself up to the absurdity and glory of it all, the rain, the wind, the soaking she’s gotten. She’s experiencing the moment, reveling in the wet and the wild. She’s an angel unaware, giving herself over to Mother Nature. She’s every grandmother’s granddaughter, she’s every mother’s daughter, she’s the nature spirit and the water sprite.
Another girl walks by with a small paper bag over her head and I wonder if she realizes what she’s missing, huddled under brown paper. She can’t see what there is to experience in the wet, wild, wonderful ecstatic experience of the moment.
And then, in a heartbeat, the light changes, the traffic moves and the eternal moment of transcendance becomes a memory, albeit a vivid one. And I wonder…does the water sprite’s mother know she dances in the rain? Will she teach her grandchildren to love what you cannot change? I hope so.