Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby. —Langston Hughes

In the dreariness of a rainy day, we still find beauty, even in things others ignore
I hadn’t planned on doing a second article today, and trust me, this one will be short. I looked out the kitchen window this morning, though, and saw that the kids had left the tricycle out in the rain. Yes, they had been told to put it up, but, being six- and seven-years-old, they didn’t think it necessary to follow those instructions. If we’re honest, few if any of us followed those instructions when we were that age. My father actually backed over my first tricycle because I left it behind the car. Such is the nature of being a child.
While frustrated that, yet again, my instructions had not been followed, I found an odd beauty in the rain on the tricycle. There’s something about the water on the chrome and the metal, the tire in the mud, the drops falling off the pedals and handlebars, that struck me as interesting. So, I grabbed the camera, ran out quickly while it wasn’t raining too hard, and grabbed a few shots.
While processing the images I also thought of how we often leave people out in the rain, so to speak. We enjoy them while they’re being fun and useful, but when we’re done we just leave them out where ever. We don’t bother to see that they’re safe, or happy. We don’t bother to think whether they might be lonely or in need of a friend.
We view too many people the same way children view toys: expendable. Children don’t typically worry about their toys because they assume that Mommy and Daddy will buy them new ones, even though that assumption is likely wrong. In similar fashion, we do the same thing to people we casually meet. We assume that the server at the restaurant, or the floor person at the department store, or the cashier at the grocery, are all expendable so it doesn’t matter how we treat them. Their feelings don’t matter. I’ve seen some treated as though they’re barely even human. We, effectively, leave them out in the rain, discarded without a thought, just assuming they’ll be there the next time we need them.
I’ve felt left out in the rain before. Perhaps you have, too. If so, perhaps you’ll understand the emotion behind these pictures.
Dance Or Protest
Come Fairies, take me out of this dull world, for I would ride with you upon the wind and dance upon the mountains like a flame! —William Butler Yeats
May Day gives us an option: we can either dance, or we can protest. Which is likely to do us more good?
Happy Easter!
Yeah, I know, that wasn’t exactly what you were expecting, was it? But yes, this is the Greek Orthodox Easter. Enjoy the highly decorated eggs.
For everyone else, Happy May Day! You now have a choice for how to spend your day: will you dance or will you protest?
One of the few memories I have of first grade is our May Day celebration. The music teacher organized the event complete with a Maypole, and flowers, and dancing, and May baskets. I remember the bright colors of the Maypole and how much fun it was to dance with all my classmates to the cool music of the lute. We were really into lutes when I was six. I also remember how proud I was of the woven construction paper basket that, somewhat unbelievably now, the teacher filled with candy and flowers with instructions for us to take them home and give them to our mothers. What’s unbelievable about that is not only that the teacher gave us fresh-cut daffodils and candy, but that the candy actually made it home!
There really is no accurate dating of when May Day celebrations began. They are unique to the Northern Hemisphere because if one lives in the Southern Hemisphere one is getting ready for winter, not Summer. The general consensus seems to be that by May 1 all of the plantings would have likely been done and it was a good day for everyone to take a break, celebrate life, and, oh yeah, sex. Pagans tended to be rather big on that part, even though there is some debate over whether that was an actual ritual or not. They called the day Beltaine and thoroughly enjoyed every minute of it.
After centuries of dancing, though, the day took on new meaning during the 19th century when workers chose that day to strike for better working conditions and ultimately a 40-hour work week. Those protests have expanded over the years to include most every form of political statement one would want to make. All over the world today, marches are scheduled in protest of government action, government inaction, and a lack of basic rights and living conditions. Some of the strongest may come in Venezuela where the government ordered clocks set 30 minutes ahead, among other measures, to help save electricity. Greece also seems to be a likely target for protests as the combination of economic and immigration problems keep the country in distress.
The difference between the two ways of commemorating the day is striking. One, the oldest, has a positive message and attitude, one born of joy and celebration, anticipation for the future. The other is born of anger, resentment, and frustration at one’s condition. The two don’t remotely go together. This means we have a choice. Are our efforts best served in the pursuit of dance and happiness and maybe even a little frivolity? Or is our time better spent raising our voice against injustice?
Personally, I choose to dance for a couple of reasons. One, dancing in circles is the one dance I can do well. Give me a brightly colored piece of ribbon tied to a pole and I’ll dance until we’re both dizzy. Second, I’m not convinced smaller protests matter any more. Politicians are too dismissive. The only time a protest seems to work is when the crowd is large enough to be genuinely threatening, and no one in Indiana is quite that passionate about a damn thing. So, dancing seems to make a lot more sense, doesn’t it?
I invite you to dance with me, if you will. We actually have wood in the fire pit, but after yesterday’s rains, I’m going to assume it’s all soaked. And I don’t have a pole or brightly colored strips of cloth. We can still dance, though, even if it decides to rain. Dancing is never a bad use of a Sunday.
Go ahead. Indulge. Dance.
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