Lying awake at 2:00 am, I felt the first cool breaths of wind stirring through the open window. It started with a far away whisper of wind, building gradually until the branches began to sway, and the cords of the window blinds began to tick against the window sill. Like a burglar in the night, the rain did its best to sneak up on us, but I was waiting.
It is a submarine world this morning. Low clouds seem to brush against the tree tops, road spray from passing trucks blow plumes of water onto the windshield, while the steady drops beat away on the roof of the car. It will be an all day rain. The grass is already greening, and the loamy soil soaks it up like a sponge. Earthworms crawl onto the sidewalks and roads gasping for air, their fleshy bodies spread out by passing tires, until the whole fertile world smells like the inside of a bait shop.
The gears of my brain grind along, clinking, and thudding like a machine in need of oil. The darkness outside only makes the harsh fluorescent buzz of the office seem brighter. I could curl up in a corner and sleep like Rip Van Winkle. I am a clock in need of winding.
I know this mood, like the clouds outside, will pass. I know a pink day will dawn on the other side. I know all this. Yet it does me no good. There are days when the only thing you can do is put down your tools, turn off the lights, and listen to the rain drumming on the roof. There are days when all your work seems no more permanent than a chalk drawing on a sidewalk.
Like monks in a monastery at the roof of the world, someone needs to sit in seclusion and wind the springs of our clock. So that the whole world keeps on spinning.