1. Morning Claimed by Rain
The early morning began with that hesitant drizzle that lets you imagine you’ll still step out. But after a while, it had gathered confidence, turning the world into blurred outlines and wet silver.
I like when the weather decides for me. No errands. No mental bargaining. Just the quiet permission to stay in. I make tea, open the balcony door just enough to catch the smell of damp leaves, and put on cheesy rain songs playlist. The music blends so perfectly with the rain it feels like I am listening to it for the first time.
2. The Shipyard Comes to Life
The to-do list on my desk sighed in resignation. I was clearly not going anywhere, so I did the only logical thing: launched a paper-boat shipyard.
The first one was a little rusty – I’d forgotten the exact folds but my fingers found their way back, the way you remember how to ride a bicycle or how to spell “accommodate” without checking Google. Soon, there was a small fleet on my table, each crafted from random sheets: an old bill, a meeting agenda, a takeout menu. It felt right that the delivery from last month’s Thai order was now the HMS Coconut Curry.
I lined them up at the edge of the balcony puddle, captain of a navy about to embark on dangerous high-seas missions. The puddle wasn’t exactly the Indian Ocean, but if you squinted and ignored the mop leaning against the wall, it had potential.
One by one, they set sail. The HMS Bank Statement made it three minutes before capsizing. The SS Grocery List held steady until a gust of wind sent it into the basil pot, where it was promptly declared missing in action. The HMS Thai Heaven, however, proved surprisingly seaworthy – gliding heroically toward the drain, the kind of vessel ballads are written about.
In between voyages, I wandered back indoors, brewed tea, stared at the rain, and remembered that this – this nothing was the whole point. A day where nothing “important” happened except the quiet pleasure of folding paper and watching it float.
3. Other Temptations
The brushes on my desk kept catching my eye, bristles tilted like they were eavesdropping. I thought about painting something – maybe the basil plant outside, leaning theatrically into the wind, or just the abstract colours of a monsoon morning: green, grey, earth-brown.
And then I remembered other rainy days – school shoes squelching with water, the smell of wet notebooks in crowded classrooms, socks that never quite dried until the next morning. Back then, a flooded street was an invitation, not an inconvenience. We came home with mud on our shins, hair sticking to our faces, and the kind of tiredness that made sleep immediate.
Now the rain catches me at my desk, mid-email, mid-call, mid-spreadsheet. I still pause to watch it, forehead pressed lightly to the cool glass, before the dashboard blinks again and reminds me where I’m meant to be. The interruptions are brief, but they’re enough – like walking past a bakery and catching the smell without going in.
The basil, meanwhile, has no such constraints. It’s living its best life, holding every drop it can. If it had a performance review today, it would get a promotion.
4. A Poem for Rainy Days
Edward Thomas wrote:
Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain
On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me
Remembering again that I shall die
And neither hear the rain nor give it thanks
For washing me cleaner than I have been
Since I was born into this solitude.
It’s heavier than my morning mood, but the part about giving thanks feels right. This weather has no agenda. It asks only that you notice it.
5. The View from 11 a.m.
It’s 12:45 PM now. The fleet is still in harbour, the rain steady but not urgent. I think of childhood afternoons when the day felt like it might never end – when rain meant card games, shared blankets, Maggi made in too-small saucepans, and someone always leaning too far out the window to feel the spray.
Today, I take my rain in instalments. Five minutes on the balcony before a call. Three minutes watching the road gloss over before getting back to a budget sheet. I’ve learned to make peace with stolen moments – they may be smaller, but they’re sharper somehow.
Maybe by noon, the HMS Thai Heaven will be halfway to the drain, its voyage remembered only by the captain. Maybe it will remain in port, gleaming with untested promise.
By evening, the puddles will have thinned, the basil will be smug, and the HMS Thai Heaven will either be a legend or a cautionary tale. The dashboards will be calling again, the emails will have multiplied, but I’ll have the quiet satisfaction of knowing that somewhere out there, a small fleet set sail under my command – and not one of them asked for status updates.
And maybe that’s why I love days like this. They remind me that not everything needs a metric or a plan. Some things are worth doing simply because they make you stop, smile, and watch the rain carry them away.
What about you?
When it rains, what do you reach for? A book, a hot snack, an old memory? Do you watch from the safety of your window, or step into the downpour just to feel it on your skin? I’d love to hear your rituals – the ones that belong only to rainy days.