My mom once told me the difference between man rain and woman rain.
Here in Florida, the humid summer months bring rainstorms every afternoon like clockwork.
“The weather is horrible! It rains every day,” complained a friend who recently moved from New York.
“But the rest of the day is fine,” I said.
Growing up in Florida, I plan around the afternoon rains and expect beautiful morning and evening weather during the summer. For my friend, rain in New York meant that her whole day was ruined. In Florida, this can happen with tropical storms and hurricanes, but those are not everyday occurrences. During those times, we have the more extensive thunderstorms lasting all day. There is nothing like torrential downpour, lightening, and thunder to make you want to curl up inside with a good book. Florida is the capital of lightening strikes. I had a friend who got hit twice by lightening proving the old adage wrong. Lightening does indeed hit the same place twice, otherwise why would people install lightening rods to protect buildings?
One summer day, long ago, in my teens, I was out in the park with my mother. It was a beautiful sunny day. The bright blue skies gave no hint of rain, lightening, or thunder. Suddenly, one of those spectacular events of Florida happened. The sprinkling of rain while the sun is shining. A fine mist came down upon us.
My mom smiled and said, “Do you know the difference between man rain and woman rain?”
“No,” I said.
“Woman rain is the fine mist. Man rain are the huge drops.”
I looked up into the fine mist, sprinkling me like a blessing of holy water at church. The mist is persistent, and soon we are covered in a light coat of water. My mom laughs, “she is spitting on us.” The rain started to pick up. I wondered if it would change to those large drops where one drop will drench you. But soon the shower of rain disappears.
This moment lives in the recesses of my brain decades later. And just yesterday evening, the misty rain came down as I practiced tai chi in the park. I smiled. Misty rain reminds me of my mother. “This is woman rain,” I said to my friend. “Do you know the different between man rain and woman rain? My mom calls this woman rain.”
The metaphor is perfect. He understands right away.
As a storyteller, I search for these moments… these triggers of memory, and the struggle for the perfect metaphor. And later that evening, I call my mother, just to hear her voice… like a blessing of misty rain.
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