The rain on the roof sounds airy, like wind, and even though all I can see from my worktable are concrete walls and white mannequins, somehow I still know that outside the sky is as dark as twilight instead of as bright as lunch-time.

Rain has always, and will always, grant me permission to be quiet, and sad, which is at least an improvement on having to be happy when you aren’t.

Sunflowers have become another guardian for me, like rain, protecting a precious inner state from the expectant demands of discouragement.  They proclaim the necessity to stop and be full of summer – to be overtaken by breezing and chirping and butterflying, and not wanting anything but to stay outside a little longer, even after Mom has told you it is time to come in.