As I stirred this morning, at an hour far later than the usual, I realised that the romance of waking up to the rain at this time of year will probably never get old. I could hear the constant rush of rain outside. I peeked out through a crack in the curtain behind my head and I was right. It was coming down in sheets. as it has every day, for the last week now. And like it has for at least least four similar bouts since the start of this monsoon. And like it has for the last seven monsoons I’ve witnessed. And every year the intrigue is fresh, the enchantment persists, the fascination gets stronger. It kicked in with full force early this month and on cue, it’s brought the daily undeniable urge to stay in bed longer, that can only be faced with the thought of a steaming up of tea that lures me out. Mornings are the best time. Everything is crisp, everything is lush and freshly birthed. Gleaming new baby leaves, brave buds bursting forth.
We’re in the midst of another rainy bout of continuous squelchy days. Waking up to get going has been really difficult. I haven’t been to the gym in a week and this morning I realised that starting the day with exercise really sets the ball rolling and without it, I feel a bit anchor-less. Added to that, I’m still a little low on energy from the illness, and waking up is fuzzy. But the promise of chai makes it better. That, and kitchen views of wild flowers that bloom and get going overnight. Where they can, when they can.