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One of my all-time favorite jazz performers and composers is John Coltrane. I began my love of jazz as a teenager by listening to Coltrane and Miles Davis, who I still regard as two of the most innovative, finest jazz musicians in history. I mention this because Coltrane wrote a great tune called, “After the Rain.” It’s a gentle flowing piece, drifting along like those times after a storm when you hear the dripping raindrops off the roof and the trickle of water flowing along the street. I was thinking about all this today while looking out the window – after a rain. Our otherwise sunny weekend was interrupted Sunday night by one of those wonderful South Florida storms. Like so many of the rains in this part of the country, it was intense. Now, on Monday morning as I write this blog, we’re getting a bit more precipitation off and on. Mostly, though, it feels like a prolonged after-the-rain moment.
Late Sunday afternoon, the sky clouded up heavily and then all those clouds slowly darkened until the first roll of thunder sounded. I was in my convertible, top down of course. I kept whipping along the highway as the rain began to fall – mostly because I’ve learned that if you drive fast enough, you can stay dry. I’m not sure a cop would buy that argument but it’s true.
I pulled up to a stoplight, raised my convertible top and windows, and was nearly home just as the storm erupted. Sometimes these tropical rains fall so hard that you literally can’t see the road in front of you. That’s how this was. I was half-soaked running four steps from my car to my condo. Inside, I watched as the rain pelted loudly against the windows and flooded the patio, a fierce burst of water that made me thankful to be drying off indoors. Then suddenly, the storm stopped. And what I saw and heard outside seemed gentle again, like Coltrane’s song. Pools of water in the drive were swirling toward the drains, large drops rhythmically fell on to window sills, the palm fronds glistened, the manmade pond in my condo’s backyard was still. What had felt so forbidding and inhospitable just seconds before, now appeared clean and fresh and welcoming. All of South Florida’s lush greenery needs these heavy rains, of course, to stay as lush and green as they are. But sometimes people need the rains too. I know I do, at least partly to savor those times after the rains have gone.
Late Sunday afternoon, the sky clouded up heavily and then all those clouds slowly darkened until the first roll of thunder sounded. I was in my convertible, top down of course. I kept whipping along the highway as the rain began to fall – mostly because I’ve learned that if you drive fast enough, you can stay dry. I’m not sure a cop would buy that argument but it’s true.
I pulled up to a stoplight, raised my convertible top and windows, and was nearly home just as the storm erupted. Sometimes these tropical rains fall so hard that you literally can’t see the road in front of you. That’s how this was. I was half-soaked running four steps from my car to my condo. Inside, I watched as the rain pelted loudly against the windows and flooded the patio, a fierce burst of water that made me thankful to be drying off indoors. Then suddenly, the storm stopped. And what I saw and heard outside seemed gentle again, like Coltrane’s song. Pools of water in the drive were swirling toward the drains, large drops rhythmically fell on to window sills, the palm fronds glistened, the manmade pond in my condo’s backyard was still. What had felt so forbidding and inhospitable just seconds before, now appeared clean and fresh and welcoming. All of South Florida’s lush greenery needs these heavy rains, of course, to stay as lush and green as they are. But sometimes people need the rains too. I know I do, at least partly to savor those times after the rains have gone.
posted by LauderBLOGGER at 8:36 AM
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