The rain beats steadily upon the roof, bouncing off and showering the plants; their leaves turned inward for protection. Unbeknownst to them, the rain is cleansing the thousands of tiny mouths within the leaves structure, enabling the plant to breathe pure, clean, unobstructed air once again.
Rainy days inevitably become an invitation to curl up in the comfort of a favorite chair with a lengthy novel or glossy magazine to watch at leisure the purifying process without. For myself, reading would be in the realm of a Jane Austen novel or MaryJanesFarm Magazine.
Jane Austen is certainly near the top of the list of my nearest and dearest authors. Her books are perfectly delicious to become deliriously absorbed with for hours on end. The characters fairly dance upon the pages as the reader sees not only words on a page, but a living, breathing world outside of her own. Written declarations become voices, distinct and clear as conversation abounds within the warm comfort of the speaker’s parlour. Carriages rattle by, the rotation of their wheels heard rolling along the cobblestone roads of the city just outside the parlour doors. The fireplace crackles, the voices rise and fall in amiable conversation, and the reader is taken back… back over one hundred years to a world in which life appears less stressful and more glamorous; a world far different from her own.
…And then someone walks into the room calling her name and bringing her back into the present age. At that point I tend to become annoyed and snappish. Fiction can be so much more interesting than reality.
Reality is a rainy day, a comfortable chair, and a good book.
But… if I listen beyond the beat of the steady rain, I can again hear the purr of the traffic driving to and from important destinations, the occasional voice in the next room raised in amiable conversation or song, and the crackle of a warm fire creating a cozy, comfortable atmosphere.
In no time at all, I am once again absorbed in the current time, living my own story, the characters of reality fairly dancing upon the pages of the present.