It seems that a lot of our opinions and sentiments are things we've just accepted on the teaching of popular opinion.
No, I'm not talking about the big, earth-shaking stuff right now. I'm talking about the small fry, like hating bugs or hating mud.
Maybe you do really hate these things. It's just that I recently realized that my dislike for these things was ingrained into me rather than developed by personal research.
Biking to Auburn's campus in the cold rain this week, and reminiscing about my past experiences with cold rain, I'm thinking I don't hate this weather. In fact, I love it.
Sure, it's a bit uncomfortable. Sure, it's harder than warm sunshine. But a thrill comes with the challenge, with the wet wildness of the weather. The wind pushes, but you push back into those darned gusts, laughing in defiance and racing to spite that joker, feeling gritty and fully alive.
With music playing in my ears and expectations wiped away, I heave my bike over the porch rail onto the pine straw and follow it with a squelchy jump. The old bike is slick with the sky water and creaky this morning from its rust arthritis.
I swing my leg over and start to pedal to a wild fiddle, bumping down one sidewalk curb and popping up another, churning through pine straw behind a row of shops, already bedecked in their holiday splendor. The chill burns my clenched hands and creeps through my jacket. And I pick up the pace.
I cross a main road before the next line of headlights approach and bebop along a wide bike path, the bike popping and groaning, the chain slipping and skipping as I coax the gear shifter through its duties.
Out here, the rain falls more freely, drizzling down through helmet and splattering pant legs. My poncho snaps, snaps, slaps in the breezes, billowing behind me like a sail.
Cheeks redden, and grin widens. This is living well.
I cruise to campus down hills, trying to keep pace with the transit, and I skirt around folks on the splashing, crisscrossing sidewalks, barely missing an elbow, a chain link fence, hitting a puddle to avoid a person and painting my clothing with a million brown dots.
I finally whip up to the usual bike rack in an embarrassing spectacle of gritted teeth and screaming brakes, calling the concourse to attention.
I stomp up the stairs in my squeaky boots, pulling off helmet (be safe kids) and poncho, making surroundings shimmer with droplets. A squirrel hops down the other side of the staircase, looking slightly lost. A random bird sings from the crepe myrtle that rises above the rail.
Hands clang handle down, and feet hurry in the classroom door.
Classmates shake their heads and start up talking about the weather again,
but I've felt the wildness of free,
my old bike and me.
Rainy days can be fun if you are willing to change your perspective, to consider the good instead of the bad, and I thank God for their challenging beauty.
