Rain work.

I’m watching raindrops dance on the manhole cover in the yard right now and letting the sound of raindrops breeze in through my window.

Something about steady dripping calms my heart and mind. It’s the consistency of the noise, like it replaces the steady thought churning in my skull with a predictable pitter-patter. It drowns out anxiety and thoughts of stopping my reading to google something unrelated and frivolous (like, “what would I look like with brown hair?”). Even though part of me wants to just stare as the rain falls, the greater part wants to keep reading while the weather cleans my brain and keeps me inside.

Let the rain fall as long as it likes. I’ll be in here, thinking solely about some branch of American literature, be it Gothic, Hemingway, Moby Dick, or The Last of the Mohicans.

I will be productive today, accepting the gift of a schedule-free afternoon and the gift of literature classes.

In my British Literature class last semester, we read Paradise Lost and talked about how in both Milton’s account and the Biblical narrative, there was work in the world before the Fall. Work wasn’t a curse until after sin, when it became hard. I suppose that’s when it became a drudge to concentrate on something, when it was an effort to have to produce an essay or study for a test. But initially, work was a gift just as much as the Garden or companionship or the many fruit trees.

And it really isn’t that hard to see work as a gift, if you don’t leave it all for the last minute.

With that being said, I will continue to make progress on my work, reading as long as the rain falls.

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