The Rhythm of Rain

The smell of wet earth rising to meet the sky is a heavy, metallic perfume that clings to the back of my throat. It is the scent of a world being scrubbed clean, a sharp, cool dampness that settles deep into the marrow of my bones. I remember the feeling of water pooling between my toes, the slick, gritty slide of mud against skin, and the way the air turns thick and grey, muffling the sharp edges of the city. There is a specific vibration in the chest when the clouds finally break—a frantic, joyous percussion that demands movement. We are not meant to stay dry when the heavens open; we are meant to dissolve into the deluge, to let the cold stream wash away the dust of the day until we are nothing but skin and pulse. Is there any freedom more absolute than the moment you stop fighting the storm and start dancing with it?

Jan Møller Hansen has captured this raw, kinetic energy in his beautiful image titled Playing in Monsoon Dhaka. It reminds me that even in the hardest places, the body knows how to find its own rhythm. Can you feel the water against your own skin as you look at this?