The rain falls and the skies are grey. The children are soggy. The naked trees' slick fingers make a tunnel over the road. People wear the expression of hurt tourists who come here and expect sunny skies and infinite white beaches. "but its california," they moan. As if the state is a guarantee for perpetually sunny weather. My earliest california weather memories are of desert downpours rattling the tin roof of my parents' first single-wide. Would the rain-haters rather this be like Nevada and its 363 days of sunny weather and miles and miles of rocks?
Yin and rain.
The rain is an excuse to linger over one's hot tea. To go to bed early with a book. To turn off the lights and listen. To draw a hot bath and lean over the side of the tub, waiting for the hot water to cool enough, letting the steam wash over one's skin. No one can complain when you drive slowly in the rain. It seems suicidal to rush anywhere. (what rush? is anything that important?)