We were staying in a log cabin in Scotland for the week, overlooking a small loch, surrounded by heather-dappled hills. The rain glittered on the loch – each drop a single diamond that fell effortlessly from water above to water below, submerged in an instant, but reflecting brightly – so that the whole loch seemed scattered with glitter or sparkly jewels. It was mesmerising, so beautiful it took my breath away.
It was rain. The reason we couldn’t go out (not that we were planning to), the reason the deer in the hills opposite chose to huddle in the bushes rather than coming to the water’s edge. It was rain, and darkness before it was meant to be dark, and a coolness in the evening air. It was beautiful.
I stared at it for so long even The Dude looked up from his book.
“Yes, it’s raining.”
“It’s like glitter on the loch.”
He looked out the window, shrugged his shoulders, “Hmm, I suppose so.”
I’m glad I see glitter and jewels where most normal people see only rain. I know that makes me a bit unusual, and perhaps a bit difficult to relate to, but that’s alright. That night, staring out at the rain, I realised that seeing the glitter in the rain was a beautiful gift, and one I should not make light of. Perhaps I should spend more time showing people the glitter, and less time wondering why they are staring at me.