Rain and the Gift of a Day

Lori recalls her father's one complaint in retirement:  Fridays.  Throughout his work life as a school superintendent, Fridays carried with them the hungry anticipation of the weekend's different pace.  Post-retirement, the differentiation between weekends and weekdays thinned, draining Fridays of their unique allure.

I thought of his mild complaint this morning as I led the dogs outside for their pre-dawn constitutional...in the rain.  It was glorious.  And part of the glory was its implied day off.

Only an alarmist would suggest that we are suffering a drought.  True, it has been a few weeks since our last measurable rainfall, but prior to that we have enjoyed amenable rains at helpful intervals in beneficial amounts.  All things being equal I would prefer Mother Nature to water my garden, but this short dry spell has given me the chance to put the irrigation system through its paces, including the two new sections I have installed in the past week.  Given my mechanical ineptitude, it's wise periodically to see if all the pieces and parts remain connected.  Having completed that assessment earlier in the week, however, and even catching up on my weeding, I had loaded up my anticipatory agenda with the less daily tasks of farm life like mowing, trimming, and tailoring not only the garden but also the chicken yard and beyond.  All that in addition to the pickling project at which we have been chipping away throughout the week to excavate ourselves from the cucumber bonanza that has befallen us.

But all of that changed in a raindrop.  I have never found the appeal of mowing in the rain, though I see park and road crews doing it all the time.  Maybe it's just an excuse, but I am of the mind that neither the tractor nor its driver function at optimal levels in the rain -- neither the tractor nor the chainsaw nor the push mower.  Pickling could happen, but the yard and garden would have to wait.

And with that, it was Saturday -- here in the middle of the week.  A day off.

For that's what I have come to miss.

Not literally, of course.  The reality is that I can choose any day to relax.  The gift of being my own boss, in a life of my choosing, is that there are no reports to the Board; no ethical imperatives about fair work for fair pay; no supervisor to whom to answer.  There is plenty of work to accomplish -- indeed, more than has ever accumulated on my "day job" desk -- but I am the only one who cares about its accomplishment.  There are price tags on neglect, to be sure, but I am the one being charged.  I can choose to lag behind or get ahead.

But there has always been something magical about a "day off."  Unlike my father-in-law, Saturday has rarely carried the appeal.  Saturdays are too close to Sundays to carry much of any spirit of leisure or liberation.  My day's off have variously occupied Fridays and Mondays and once, for a season, even Thursdays.  But regardless of the positioning within the week, a day off routinely dawned like a kiss of peace and breath of grace.  More psychological than temporal; more about the spirituality of sabbath than the practicality of leisure, days off were the soul's deep breath.

And I miss them every now and then -- the sheer gift of kairotic open space -- even though every day, these days, is available for possibility.

And then this morning, walking the dogs in the wet blackness of day still birthing...

...that interrupted my plans and delivered not just daylight, but a true day off.   The grass and vegetables can wait.  Let it rain.