I love them. So many people talk about how depressed they get when it rains. But, it just makes me feel content. Quiet, introverted. I want to curl up next to a crackling fireplace and read a book. A real book. With paper pages. Of course, on the East Coast you get rainy days even when it’s warm. Which is very different from how weather works on the West Coast. In California if it’s raining, it’s cold. There is no such thing as a warm, summer deluge. If it’s raining in the summer, El Nino is nigh.

Now, if you’re living in Portland and dealing with rain for 60% of the year I get being bummed seeing yet another gray day. But, I think growing up in a very dry place — where rain is celebrated and welcomed — really set the tone for my relationship with precipitation.

I’m not sure there is a better smell than rain. The scent that emanates from wet pavement after the first shower, it’s indescribable. The way arid, dusty soil soaks up the water, the honeyed steam, like a cloud of sweet smoke rising from the ground. The way the grass intensifies in color and in fragrance. The trees take on that earthy, mustiness. City or country, it’s magnificent.

I love going to the coast on gray days. Perhaps because most days on the Pacific Ocean are gray. We’re the only ones camping on Fire Island in October. Which is great for us. My ideal walk on the beach includes fog in the distance, rich, thick clouds over head and the smidgen of moisture in the air. A hot, sunny walk? Ugh, no thank you. I’m not really a lay-sprawled-on-a-towel to tan kind of gal, I guess. I mean, I think the cluster of freckles and a little bronzing of my face helps to conceal the dark under-eye areas — and the mess of wrinkles I’ve accumulated over the years — but mostly, I am not a tanner or a swimmer. I’m an appreciater. That’s a word, I swear.

I love teaching on rainy days. The kids come in soaked and jittery. We spend a little more time doing independent reading and a little more time on art projects those days. I play music and turn off the lights. We sit silently at the window to listen to the pitter-patter or more likely, the downpour outside. I giggle and make silly faces, I dance and sing and take it upon myself to be the sunshine. They moan and groan about not getting to go outside but then get really excited when they tell me about the movie they’re going to watch with their families when they get home. They sulk over being wet but then I watch them refuse the umbrella their adult has brought and jump into the nearest puddle, splashing and screaming, stomping their muddied boots, heads upward, catching water droplets in their mouths, palms open, stretched skyward, happy.

I think, even if it’s just secretly, everyone actually loves the rain. Or, at least, that’s what I’d like to believe.