This morning’s first waking moments were spent trying to figure out what that sound was. It’s been so long since I’ve heard it, the sound of rain on the tin roof is not familiar anymore, haha.
Finally! It’s raining. We need it badly so I won’t grudge having to put on my hat to get the gate or feed the horses.
I wish I could stay home today and write. Or read. Or any number of things I could do if I stayed home… very tempting, but I can’t. Too many other things I have to do at work.
We got a little rain two days ago. It rained all night. The dust is settled and a faint green fuzz (of weeds) shows on the pasture.
The horses charged out of their stalls – squealing and playing in the chill morning air.
Of course it was followed by a frost the next morning – so the grass won’t grow much. Still I’m hoping all the cool season grass I scattered this fall will sprout.
Yes, dont most of us know that feeling. Having to go to work instead of doing something at home. Those days seem like something missed to me. Like I was meant to be doing something else. It’s the same for all of us I guess, or at least most of us. Some people born, or self made, into wealth or security have that rare opportunity to do what they want. But, I’m sure each one of us, no matter what, have some kind of responsibility be it to our work, family, or ourselves. There is always something that binds us to do something else instead of what we really want to do.
In a eutopian world we would be free to explore our every wish, but even then there is a price. Everything we do, changes us in some way. Knowledge gained, or morals understood because of interaction with people or labor strengthening our minds or bodies. It’s all relative as they say.
Still, the sound of rain on a tin roof gives us a feeling of security, at least it brings back memories for me of quiet solitude. Of childhood memories at my aunts house in a small town a long time ago. Thank you, for letting me remember what that sound felt like.
I didn’t get any winter grass seeded this year. Every year I forget, but it might not be too late now.