This afternoon, I weeded a garden in misty rain. All around me, a trifling chill, like early spring. My gloved fingers immersed in soil moist from persistent showers, pull at a web of roots feeding healthy but undesirable greenery like blood vessels to a tumor. The beetles I disturb scurry in a frenzy as their status quo collapses. A frighteningly large spider, burdened by her corpulent egg sac, totters hesitantly, then stills as she assesses the potential threat. I eagerly move to a different section, and give her--and myself--some space.
I reach underneath a shrub to grab the clever growth that shelters there. I firm up my posture and tug as tiny leaves release the drops of rain that have been collecting. The dewy droplets cascade down my arm, one by one then together gathering unto one another, soft as petals, this shower of loveliness.
When I realize. I am going to be happy in this place. In this strange climate where weeding in the rain seems more right than weeding in the sun. In this place of extremes where it can be the end of summer one day and the beginning of spring the next. In this place where I am learning who I really want to be. By myself. For myself.