Migraines madden me and make for scrambled thoughts. I can't serve those with toast and call them a breakfast delicacy so I simply fry them up in my brain-pan and season them with occasional rhyme if not reason. When the devil in my grey matter jabs me with his pointed fork like this, I want to war with my senses; to battle with the pain until it whimpers in fear and dissolves into a quiet nothing. I want to send it to the corner for a permanent time out; to banish it from the kingdom of my joy.
I love the rain. If I could wear essence of petrichor, I would. Petrichor -- the scent of the rain on dry earth...so heady and delicious; deeply sensual; primal and true. I love the glorious music rain makes as it splashes and dashes, and leaps from the burgeoning sky onto my roof. I delight in the playful puddles that ask me to join them as I wander past. I revel in the water as it hits my skin, dousing my hair and dripping off my eyelashes. I appreciate the visual glory of sheets of water running vertically across the horizon, individual drops creating ripples in a pond, or families of raindrops found hanging on a spider's web in the morning. I really, truly love the rain.
What I do not love is the pressure front that comes with it. This silent migraine inducer that brings with it nausea, light sensitivity, scrambled speech, and intense pain. If I could have rain without barometric pressure, I'd be a happy woman indeed.
Tonight, however, and despite this awful migraine,I choose to celebrate the glory of the water currently coming from the sky. I give thanks for the lullaby it will sing to me. As I get ready to climb into my pre-warmed bed, I count my blessings, hum along with the music that is rainfall, and pray for sleep and for respite from the cranky devil that lives in my gray matter. Wish me luck. I think I might need it.
© Tanya Anguita
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