Après la pluie.

When it rains in southern California it seems like all hell breaks loose. Its flip-flop wearing inhabitants cry out in agony and turmoil. Why oh why, dear Lord, must you torture us so? The rain gear emerges from its dusty closet confines at the first pelt of rain and the laziness sets in at its continuity.

"Why go to class when you have to walk? (in the rain)"
"Why go to work when you have to drive? (in the rain)"
"Why get out of bed when there is more than 15% chance of getting wet?"

Oh, California.
There's something about the rain though, that speaks to the soul.
After it rains, it smells like life. (More accurately, the combination of snails & stale water)
After it rains, there is a stillness -- even in the city.
After it rains, you may go to without trepidation, knowing that the world is at rest, yet again.
The best thing about rain is that you know there is an after.

You may have guessed (or experienced firsthand) that today it rained.
Today, I went to corporate morning prayer and prayed alone.
Today, I went to the gym for the first time in about 5 months.

A word or two about gyms before moving on.
The very concept of a gym is baffling.
You willingly enter a large humid room in which each person is sweating out a bucket of themselves. That sweat evaporates somewhat. . . does that mean you're breathing in other people?
Sweating is like peeing out your pores.
Tennis shoes are unsurprisingly amazing (to walk in) and inextricably hideous.
Like so many other things in life --
such as the "nice" guy, and sweats that bunch up at the ankles.
Buff people at the gym terrify me.
Their sheer presence intimidates me, as though self-worth at the gym measures up to the diameter of your biceps upon flexing.
It's not enough that you're so muscular that you ripple, but you have to shove those things in my face while I'm trying to walk or sit.
It makes me uncomfortable.

Walking back from the gym I crossed a street without really giving it much thought. There were no cars around. Yet while I was crossing I was met across the way with a crowd of utterly shocked and flabberghasted faces. Oh. I had walked when the little white walking man was not flashing. What was worse, I was crossing when there was a big fat red hand telling me to stop. The faces continued to watch me, the daredevil that I was, looking to me, then to the road, then back to me -- wondering if they should take the same risk -- wondering what would happen if they dared to cross . . . an empty street.



Take the first step.
It's liberating.