Waiting for the Rain

The sky in the north is often a heavy, wet wool. We carry protection against it, a habit of folding ourselves away when the clouds break. There is a peculiar patience in an object that waits for a storm. It sits in the corner, leaning against the wall, a dormant spine of wire and fabric. It does not complain of the dry days. It does not fear the sun. It simply exists in a state of readiness, a silent promise made to the clouds. We are much the same, I think. We hold our defenses close, waiting for the moment the world demands we open them. We are defined by what we keep folded inside, by the weight of the water we have yet to shed. When the sky finally opens, will we be ready to hold the weight, or will we simply let the water pass through us?

Keith Goldstein has captured this stillness in his photograph titled Umbrellas. It is a quiet study of things left waiting. Do you also keep your defenses folded until the sky turns gray?