Josna Rege

129. Good Morning, Rainy Day

In 1960s, 1980s, 2010s, Britain, Education, India, Inter/Transnational, Music, Stories, United States on November 23, 2011 at 10:59 am

One misty moisty morning, courtesy of Kate Stapleton Photography,

Good morning rainy day/We can’t go out to play
But we are glad to think/The flowers can have a drink.

We had to recite this verse, singsong-fashion, in primary school in India, and my mother tells a flattering story of me as a child, expressing such thankfulness one rainy morning. Truth be told, it wasn’t selfless feelings for the flowers that motivated me. Rainy days, especially warm, rainy days, have always given me a feeling of comfort. Perhaps it is because of my different memories of rain—both personal and collective—in India, so longed-for after the hot, dry season, so welcomed by us children, who ran out naked to greet the first downpour of the monsoons; and in England, where it evokes misty, moisty mornings, teapots full of piping-hot tea, hedgerows laden with juicy blackberries, and general coziness. Cultivating an attitude of thankfulness, though, is something else altogether.

children running in the rain (from

In boarding-school in the mists of Darjeeling, when the morning bell wakened us jarringly out of sleep at six o’ clock every morning to face the daunting prospect of a cold shower, I would burrow under the bedclothes until the last possible moment, only just making it to Morning Study on time. But my best friend Marianne, who slept in the bed next to mine for all three years at Mount Hermon, would wake at first light and invariably rise before the bell, with a song in her heart. As she made her bed with crisp hospital corners, she would murmur the song under her breath so as not to disturb me, but I would just burrow still deeper, cultivating an inner scowl worthy of Oscar the Grouch.

When we lived in Winchendon, where most people’s water came from wells which were perpetually in danger of running dry if overdrawn, a sign over the bathroom sink in a neighboring collective household used to annoy me. It read:

Water is precious/Use it gratefully.

Ornery type that I was, I would always think to myself that if water was precious, surely the sign ought properly to read, “Use it sparingly.” Gratitude, I thought, could merely produce a feeling of self-satisfaction without a concomitant reduction of water use. But although I grumbled, I never took up the issue with my friends in this household; neither did I understand what it meant to live and work with a grateful heart. It is only now, more than twenty years later, that I am beginning to have an inkling of it.

A couple of months ago I spoke on the phone with an old friend in England, whom I haven’t seen for a long time. Her dear mother died just recently after a long struggle with Alzheimer’s Disease, and she herself works with children who have cancer. After I had recited the litany of my accumulated woes, she told me about a daily exercise she has found useful: listing the things in her life, large and small, for which she is thankful. She said that it put her personal troubles in perspective and never failed to lift her spirits.

Twenty years ago I might have pooh-poohed such an idea, but now, in my middle age, waking with a song in my heart and a deep gratitude for the gift of life is something I can no longer afford to look upon with a jaundiced eye.

Another memory from boarding school: morning chapel, and a favorite morning hymn, one stanza of which went

Awake, cold lips and sing
Arise, dull heart and pray
Lift up, O man, thy heart and eye
Brush slothfulness away.

I remember looking over at the girl standing next to me one morning as we sang this hymn, and thinking uncharitably how cold and waxen her lips looked, how impassive her face. I loved singing, and it never failed to bring me joy, but it didn’t occur to me either that she might have unspoken sorrows of her own or that the words might have a message for me.

As I sit up in bed in my warm house this rainy morning-before-Thanksgiving with my pot of Darjeeling tea and my laptop, I welcome the new day with gladness. Soon I must arise and face the world, negotiate the traffic on the roads and mingle with the jostling throngs in the shops, and I resolve to do so with a grateful heart. But first, just one more cup of tea.

Tell Me Another (Contents to Date)

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  1. So beautifully written, JoJo. Thank you for sharing these memories and words of wisdom about gratefulness on the day before Thanksgiving.

    • Thank you for your kind feedback, Anne. Your good energy in working to organize that bountiful event last month has certainly sown a spirit of gratitude among your classmates. Wishing you a peaceful Thanksgiving, x J

  2. It is an honor to be mentioned in your blog!
    I have always loved the rain and remember with special fondness the pounding of the monsoon rain on our aluminum roof at Whispering Pines. It would force us to stop talking and we would usually run to the windows to watch the deluge washing everything down.
    I loved going to bed with the rain beating on the roof. Such a cozy feeling!
    Living in the semi-arid desert of Southern California has given me an even greater appreciation of real rain. I miss it!
    I was fortunate enough to be on a bicycle trip in Vermont when we just rode in the rain and got soaking wet. Such a lovely experience seeing the colours of Fall glistening in the rain as we sped along those beautiful little roads through the countryside.
    Thanks for bringing up those memories!

    • I know you’re a fellow rain-lover, Marianne. Thank goodness you have enough memories of rain (the title of a novel by Sunetra Gupta) to last you through those long periods of drought! I am going to be lulled to sleep tonight by that sound you describe, of rain beating down on the corrugated-iron roof. And I can see the Fall leaves glistening on the Vermont country roads.

  3. I love rain. The studio in this house doesn’t have a ceiling below the roof, although there are boards up there so it’s not a raw ceiling. We can hear the rain so well out here. Makes it much more real than in the other part of the house where the sound is well muffled.

    • I agree, and it’s a lovely sound–so easy to sleep to the pitter-patter of rain on the roof. I imagine, if you work in the studio, that it gives you a feeling of being hidden away from the world–or at least, from the rest of the house.

      • It really does and that’s why I am so glad to have it back after years of relatives living there, temporarily. Nice to have my own space, even though some of it is common space with my husband too 🙂

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