The Sound of Rain on Glass

It started raining around two in the afternoon. The kind of steady, patient rain that settles in for hours. Not dramatic. Not stormy. Just rain.

I had work to do. Emails to answer. A project deadline approaching. But I found myself at the window instead, watching.

The way drops form at the top of the glass. How they pause, accumulate weight, then slide down in unpredictable paths. Sometimes merging with other drops. Sometimes racing past them.

I stood there for twenty minutes. Just watching rain on a window.

When was the last time I did that? Stopped to observe weather without purpose or agenda? Not rushing through it to get somewhere. Not resenting it for disrupting plans. Just watching.

The sound is what held me. That soft, persistent patter. Thousands of individual drops becoming one continuous texture of sound. Like static, but organic. Alive.

Inside, the light changed. Everything looked softer. The colors in the room more muted. The air felt different—cooler, heavier, quieter somehow even with the sound of rain.

I realized I spend most rainy days annoyed. Inconvenienced by weather. Wishing it were sunny. Missing the actual experience happening right now—rain falling, the world getting wet, the specific quality of this particular afternoon.

This time I let myself be present for it. And it was... beautiful. Not in a grand way. In a quiet, patient, ongoing way.

The work still needed doing. I returned to my desk eventually. But those twenty minutes at the window felt like a small gift. An unexpected pause. A reminder that sometimes the best thing you can do is stop and watch rain fall.

Weather happens whether we notice it or not. But noticing changes the experience of the day. It brings you into your actual life instead of the one you're planning or remembering.

It's raining again today. I'm at the window again. Watching. Listening. Being here for this moment of water falling from sky to ground.

The work can wait twenty minutes.