By Cherimie Weatherford
Rain has a way of quieting the orchestra of obligations in a world so hurried with the momentary contentment that comes from the suffocating persona we project, attempting to belong in a society where belonging is surrender.
As each drop rolls off the needle of an aged pine and fills the air with the scent of nature, I can’t help but think of my Mamaw Mary. I ran through the field to her home, soaking my boots with each purposeful step. Racing the wind, dodging limbs, and hoping my momma didn’t see me slide out the backdoor while my sisters stayed dry, behaving like good girls should.
I still feel the backsplash soaking my jeans, spattered with rye and mud. There was always a decisive rhythm in the path to Mamaw, often performing a duet with the speed of my heart and the short and quick steps made by memory as the rain blinded my little eyes.
Mississippi is confident in her ability to shine while showcasing southern winds whirling through tall pines, leaving ripples in open fields in a majestic show of power. Simple downpours that amused the masses paled compared to the dancing pines, howling winds, and the instinctual movement of horses, cows, and birds that know. The deep south knows the rain more deeply than most.
Not capable of sitting still or hiding from any storm, Mamaw always found a way to busy her hands and mind. In anticipation of that signature screen door squeak, her voice cut through the wind with a phrase I often feel in my bones. “Cherimie!” she would say before asking me if Daddy knew I was out in such weather. She never awaited my answer, as it never mattered, so she tossed a towel around my tiny, soaked frame with hands decorated with wisdom, bruised with experience, and darkened by time in the sun. Her hands were far more familiar with tools than baking pans; her scent was more sawdust than sweet.
As the rain hammered her tin roof, she would invite me to whatever project she created to avoid the punishment of an idle mind. Understanding my place with others my age felt forced and stifling; she let me be me. She knew my hands mirrored hers in smaller form.
The rainy days have taught me more than the smoldering heat of the southern summer or the breathtaking sting of winter beneath the pines. It was just me, my Mamaw, and a Mississippi storm. The comfort of not filling time with unnecessary words and the joy of sharpening the tool of my two hands is my preferred self-care, even today. I learned more about myself, unconditional love, and the gentle way nature nudges us to spend our time more wisely.
For hours, I helped proud Mary conquer things for which no one gave credit. Her piercing blue eyes intensified upon completing a project that should have been beyond her reach. She taught me to be silently proud and comfortably capable and taught me how to decipher noise from sound. Never waiting for an audience, she shined so brightly in self-reliance. She was satisfied in solitude and felt no need for pretense.
Today, I sit listening to the rain, allowing myself to drift back home during a time when I miss the crackling wood stove, squeaking screen door, and the encouraging silence I enjoyed with my Proud Mary the most. The world moves more slowly with more intention when the rain and wind complete their dance. Storms are a blessing, a caress, and a deep exhale. The times we spend making the most of the twisting winds, blanketing rain, and bending pines allow us to dance more confidently in the sun when clouds part.
As we reflect on a year coming to a close, storms past, and lives changed by unforgiving strikes of lightning, we also remember the strength of feeling the rain, facing the winds, and harnessing the power of change. The storms make us who we are, give us experience in understanding, and teach us to rise, not run. I wish you all a 2024 full of hope, strength, kindness, and the ability to withstand the storm.
Cherimie Weatherford is a long-time real estate broker, small business owner, wife and mom in beautiful Beaufort.
