writers on the storm

rain. it makes one feel so much more writerly than usual.

the music of the tinkling drops on the window transports me to my many jaunts to the u.k., especially the year i spent in nottingham as a student living as the locals do. so many bold memories. some memories fade and become hazy with the passing years, but my u.k. memories always seem to push and elbow their way forward; they are brash and dashing hooligans, indeed.

* being bundled up in every article of clothing i owned, fetal (and futile) in my sleeping bag, in bed with the heater on–and still cold. surprisingly, it still counts as a good memory.

* the first time i saw snow falling from the sky. before then, it merely appeared on ground. i knew it to be snow, but i had never experienced its descent.

* trudging over the moors lined with heather entertained only by the breeze and my little voice whispering stories to me.

* gorging myself on raspberries from the unfortunate orchard that became our back garden if one walked far enough. i do believe that counts as stealing, oh dear.

* the joy of country kittens that appeared here and there and grew into tomcats we fed and then tried to pretend we hadn’t actually adopted and named.

* the field trip to paris for the man ray exhibit. although the ferry from dover to calais made me a bit green, the sight of the sacre coeur and oscar’s tomb at pere lachaise more than made up for it.

* touring chatsworth/pemberley and dreaming the dreams only creative writers do.

* starting or returning from a journey and happily walking oliver’s lane, a full mile from the cottage to the road. i can see the bruised sky and lack of fences so clearly.

* being chased from the stone cottage that was the inspiration for Wuthering Heights by surprisingly persuasive sheep who’d claimed the territory. the ensuing, and i suppose obligatory, rainstorm we were caught in on the trudge home was equally fulfilling. oh, england, you little charmer.

* awaking suddenly aboard the flying scotsman with the instinctive knowledge that we had just crossed into scotland–and it turned out that we had; i just knew. there is something so mystical and heartening about that land.

i suppose i could go on and on and on. sigh. the blessing and the curse of being so observant and imaginative is that everything takes on a romantic, heightened hue: receiving the post, drinking tea, walking–all of it seemed so much more poetic and transformative in england.

why have i not been there in so long? perhaps there is a moratorium on romantic americans stealing all of their fresh air, the terrible byproduct of which is producing horrible sonnets.

to the rain! thank you for submerging me in such happy, vibrant memories. try not to knock down too many trees. we writers like those too.