The scents of knowledge and adventure float up from the new book I just opened. In the dim lamplight, my fingers briefly trail along the title pages and table of contents before my insatiable hunger for words and the infinite stories they create takes over. My ravenous eyes devour page after page.

The fireplace crackles daintily near me. The heat exudes in waves, saturating my thick socks and woolen blanket. Tucked in a sweatshirt, I snuggle a little bit further into my favorite spot of the couch– the spot in the corner where the cushions are slightly deeper and fluffier.

Thunder booms outside, sending my apprehensive little dog to my side. The steady drum of the rain on the roof takes over. I know, without a doubt, this is my happy place.

I’ve always liked the rain.

Despite its raging, ferocious nature, I’ve always found comfort in its chaotic essence. I was never the kid whose fearful tears emulated the downpour outside. I even embraced thunder and lightning. Perhaps my emotions towards storms grew from the positive association between storms and my deceased, beloved grandmother from a young age. My mother always said, “Thunderstorms happen when Grandma Jo is bowling in Heaven. You see lightning when she bowls a strike, and you hear thunder when she bowls a spare.” In this way, storms were a reminder that she was still there, still watching over my family and I. It made me feel safe.

As a child, I never shied away from the rain. I didn’t mind the pellets pounding my skin, drenching every part of me. One blissful summer day, I was skateboarding down my street with two of my best friends. In a matter of minutes, the sun was chased from the sky, and storm clouds filled its place. The slight trickle of rain evolved into a sight-obscuring downpour. Screaming and giggling, we threw off our shoes and danced in the street. In hindsight, we recklessly jeopardized our safety since we could barely see the vague outline of our hands in front of us. Nevertheless, the joy I felt that day was insurmountable.

The rain inexplicably always seems to be on my side. It shows up when I don’t even know I need it. At one of my older brother’s birthday parties growing up, we celebrated at a pool. The chilly summer day was overcast and gloomy, but the party must go on. One of my friends decided to make things more interesting when the pool staff said it wasn’t safe to go swimming because of the weather. We came across water guns, so naturally, we mischievously picked a fight we had no chance of winning. In the moments before we were to be attacked and soaked by our far more numerous enemy, thunder rolled, and we were ushered inside. The rain saved us from a watery defeat by squirt gun and forever will have my gratitude.

Yet, one of my favorite aspects of rain is the sound it makes. The plunking of the droplets infuses me with an unduplicatable sense of tranquility. They make me think back to the warm dusk rain showers at my cottage. I would grab the fur blanket and cozy up on the porch, happy doing nothing but listening. I have the greatest sense of inner peace and quietness when the rain comes down.

Each reverberating drop of rain echoes a renewed emotion or feeling. Safety. Joy. Gratitude. Peace.

The rain makes me nostalgic.