my own silence

My mother's book is experiencing success.  No, my mother is experiencing the success of her book.  It is an odd thing to read a book in which you are a character, even a minor, flat, character.  (Flat as a piece of paper, actually, flat as a dour nun who can be counted upon to shake her bony finger at you in disapproval every time you try to think about enjoying yourself in some small way.)  I am proud of my mother - though not of the small part I have to play in the dramatic story of her, and Colleen's, life.

It is raining, as it does here for much of the year, and this time I have remembered to fill the bird feeders.  It makes the rain more bearable to see living things outside and enjoying the rain in a way that I can rarely muster.  It is fascinating how it is actually very possible to enjoy rain when one chooses to do so.  Like birds do. They rejoice.  When you step outside with the purpose of jumping in puddles and getting wet, rain feels wonderfully refreshing.  You know you can come back inside and change clothes and dry off.  The other kind of rain, the one that gets you while you are trying to load groceries in the trunk of your car (only the first of many tasks that must be completed on the weekend), feels dismal.  I wonder how many frustrated authors have begun (and ceased)  to write about how rain makes them feel today.



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