When you live in Canada on the west coast, you learn to live with rain from November until April. A lot of rain. I look outside and see little streams of water running down the road, puddles in potholes, and windshield wipers flapping on every car that drives by. Yeah, I know, it’s an exciting life I lead.
Today I am thinking in the rain.
Who is the lady with the bright pink umbrella who walks so slowly past my house every day at 10:30? Where is she going? Does she have a husband, children, friends? Is there something troubling her? Maybe she catches the bus to go to a job she despises, knowing that if she doesn’t work the bills don’t get paid. Perhaps she goes to visit a friend or to care for a loved one.
What about the couple next door who come and go numerous times a day in their beat-up Chevy van? Or the teenage boy who never wears a jacket. Or the man with the limp who walks his dog.
These are the people I see when I sit at my desk, looking out the window. They don’t know I see them. They don’t know that I wonder what their story is. So I imagine stories for them, and some of them show up in the stories I write.
That’s what thinking in the rain does to me.