Holes. by Regina Tingle

I was all worked up the other night: mad at the rain, mad at the hole in my “new” windshield (it was a botched job), mad that the water was seeping into my car all night, mad there was nothing I could do about it, mad that I was mad that the rain was keeping me up because normally I love the rhythmic patter.  I tossed and turned, and realized that really I was just miffed to be mad.  


But that’s when clarity came and did its light-footed dance through my thoughts in the middle of the night amid foggy dreaminess (and mad-ness).  It came through a recognition of patterns, much like that pitter-patter pattern of rain on the window.  The common denominator repeating itself?  


Holes.  


I had a leak in my windshield and a leak in my skylight at the foot of the bed.  As I’m thinking this, and as the law of Murphy would have it, the rain starts coming down harder, a weighted rush.    So I sort of hollered out (into the silence in my head and out to the rain): What is this?  What am I supposed to do with all these holes?  Is this some way of telling me that I just need to let it all come pouring in?  Fine then!  Pour in.  There’s nothing I can do about it right now anyway.  And then as if cued by a choir director’s exaggerated motion of closure: SILENCE.  That was it.  After five hours of pouring nonstop, the rain ceased.  Just like that.  And then I went back to sleep.


I’d like to say that I woke up and the sun was bright and shining and Mister Blue Bird sat on my shoulder while I whistled.  But I can’t.  I can’t even whistle. 


Instead it was sprinkling and gray when I woke up.  It was dark and it had gone from about eighty degrees to about what felt like a stiff forty degrees.  Remnants of a sun-soaked August had become soggy November overnight.  And I had to walk in that rain and feel the soppy roof of my car that I’m sure will smell like mold soon because I do not have a wet-vac at my disposal (much less a garage to put my car in) but this is all trivial and it’s not the point.  


The point is, I took my car back to the botch-man and said fix it and he said he would.  And then as I walked up the steep hill to go to work, the sun came out.  The cool air felt invigorating.  It was only because of the rain that I realized that this grand life is full of holes.  


It is pointless to get worked up over them–pointless in the middle of the night, pointless when you have no caulk in your possession.  But that’s not really the point either.  The point is that sometimes when you catch on and then yell out (even if only in the silence of your head) somewhere, someone out there (in this case it was the one directing the choir) makes it all go hush.  


The holes don’t go away, no.  But the rain gets quiet and it’s because of the rain that it can get quiet in the first place.  It’s because of the quiet that we can sleep.  We sleep not so we can always wake up looking ten years younger under a happy yellow hue of sunshine or something Disney like that, but so that we can wake up and walk up a steep hill to our day job and realize that holes and rain aren’t all that bad.  Neither are leaks in a windshield, leaks in the skylight or leaks in the sky for that matter.  It all serves a purpose.  Even if it’s only just so we’re grateful that none of those holes have hemorrhoids.           

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