Rain and the Courage to Jump into Puddles

The summer is over. Well, at least in the calendar, because here it is still hot as Hell.

I need a holiday, a break, a breather, to step away from this madness that has been 2026 so far. To take a breath.

But I cannot. My husband is still not cured and needs my help and moral support, my daughter starts university at the end of the month and the cats have to be fed.

Not to mention the medical tests that await me to see if there is something wrong with my heart.

I wish I could just stop. To be able to distance myself from the day-to-day routine, to find something to motivate me to carry on.

Well, yesterday was one of those days. A breath of fresh air. Literally.

A short rain caught us, my daughter and me, and we had to, you know, walk in the rain.

It was heavenly.

The cooler air, the smell of wet earth, the freshness of each and every blade of grass.

It took me back to my childhood, when after every summer rain I used to run and jump into puddles. We lived on a side street near the Old Center, where there were almost no passing cars.

Up until this day, I remember the elation, the happiness I felt back then.

What kind of magic is hidden in such a simple activity? Why do I still carry its echoes in my souls?

Why do we have to be kids to be able to jump into puddles and feel free?

Maybe this is all I need.

Rain and the courage to jump into puddles. The courage to do something that brings me pure, unadulterated pleasure, even if it is a childish act.

If we expect good things to come to us, I think we’ll have a long, long wait in front of us.

Today the sky is the bluest of blues, but the memory of yesterday’s rain still lingers on my skin. I will try to hold on to it for as long as I can, put is somewhere safe inside my heart and access it whenever life get too rough.

The memory of a translucent, shiny puddle and the girl who had the guts to jump into it.