So rain’s pounding down again. It does so in distinctive rhythms: perhaps first an avalanche, nearly solid, bending supple leaves until they nearly tear; then, something lesser, heavy stage-curtains of water, marring windshields and windows, turning traffic lights and street lamps into wet crayon streaks; but mostly, a steady drumbeat, off a tin roof, or a tiled one, or off a car, or the plastic sheet of a tent.
It’s been five straight days of holidays for me – I was on leave from work on Friday, and then came the weekend, and today’s the second of two consecutive public holidays in this part of the world. Work beckons tomorrow.
Work. In his book Zen in the Art of Writing, science fiction and fantasy writer Ray Bradbury described the word as “faintly repellent”. Funny – it isn’t that at all to me. To me, work is something constructive, even an aspiration to something noble. Maybe it’s my age – I am not yet tired – or the fact that I like my job, but, by and large, I look forward to work.
Next month, I will start a three-month attachment in an organisation very different from my current one. I believe three months is a very short time to contribute a respectable amount or learn something substantial, but it’s a chance to try out a change without being committed to it, which is rare indeed and something I look forward to making the most of.