|
THURSDAY, 3 SEPTEMBER
|
| Dear friend, |
|
I put a bucket in the hall on Tuesday, awake, in daylight, and it has not rained a drop since.
|
|
Which makes me either well prepared or slightly daft, and I have decided to be pleased with myself either way.
|
|
Rain has been in your letters all week, and the same line kept turning up in them, which is that it feels like something is coming.
|
|
Hardly anybody could say what, so I would like to take that seriously today, since this many people dreaming of water in one week is worth more than my leaking ceiling.
|
|
|
|
|
What the rain comes before
|
|
In the old readings rain is never the end of anything, it is the part that comes before the growing, and I will say plainly that this is folklore rather than evidence, so what you do with it is your own business.
|
|
|
|
|
What I notice is that the people writing to me about rain are nearly all waiting on something particular, and they can name it in one line the moment anybody asks.
|
|
Waiting makes a thing feel further off than it is. The dream seems to turn up nearer the end of the waiting than the start, which is the opposite of how it feels from inside.
|
|
I would not promise you a date, since I have no business doing that, though I have stopped ignoring weeks where the same weather turns up in this many inboxes at once.
|
|
| “ |
Waiting makes a thing feel further off than it is.
|
|
