Like so many days in January, today is wet and grey. When I look out the window, I see a greyish-white sky, with no hint of blue. The wind is blowing, and it's raining occasionally. I hear people talking about the weather, about how depressing it is, how it weighs on them, how they miss the sunshine.

When I go for a walk in the rain, I don't mind the wetness. I don't mind the grey skies. When I lift my face to the sky and I feel the rain coming down, I feel hope well up in me. Yesterday, it was raining steadily as I walked home from the bus stop, and the wetness felt wonderful. It wasn't so cold that the rain was deeply chilling. Instead, it was invigorating.

Over the summer, it was all sunshine and scorching heat. No rain. Few clouds. I hid indoors when I could and despaired because it seemed as though autumn would never come. Heat drains me of energy, and bright sunlight makes me close my eyes to shield them. The combination is wrenching. I grow unhappy in the summer, and for some reason, it's harder to handle than on the days when the sky is grey. I miss the rain, and I hide in the shade of trees.

The first day at the end of the summer when the skies opened and it poured down rain, I went for a walk, lifting my face to the rain.

It felt like a benediction.