Grass and Rain and my Books 05/23/2026

“Splatter, splatter, splatter.”

I stared at the light rain this morning as it tapped softly against the open patio window. I was sitting quietly in the living room, wrapped in the stillness of the house, while a cool breeze drifted inside and brushed against my skin. The air smelled faintly of wet grass and earth, the kind of scent that only arrives with rain. Beyond the patio, the trees facing the golf course swayed lazily beneath the gray Michigan sky, their branches bending gently with the wind as if they too had surrendered to the calmness of the morning.

It is nearly the end of May, yet Michigan still carries a lingering coldness to it, a stubborn refusal to fully become summer. The rain made everything outside appear softer, quieter, almost dreamlike. And as I sat there watching droplets gather along the railing and disappear into the grass below, I felt something within me finally slow down too.

Not long ago, my life belonged to London. To underground trains rumbling beneath crowded streets, to city lights reflecting against wet pavement after midnight, to hospital corridors and mornings that began before the sun ever rose. London moved quickly, almost impatiently, as though the city itself feared stillness. For a long time, I moved with it.

Now I find myself back in America, tucked away in the quietness of Michigan, studying for one of the most difficult exams of my life. The kind of exam that humbles you and demands patience from you. Some days it feels isolating, watching the rest of the world continue moving while I remain hidden away with books, notes, and endless hours of studying.

But this morning, listening to the rain and watching the trees sway outside my window, I realized that perhaps there is nothing shameful about stepping away for a while.

There is something beautiful about retreating from noise in order to focus on something meaningful. Even if everyone around you seems to be choosing louder paths, faster paths, more visible paths. Nature itself does not rush. The rain arrives when it is meant to. The trees bend with the wind without resistance. Even the coldness lingering in late May feels intentional somehow, as though the season itself is teaching patience.

London taught me ambition and motion. But Michigan, in its gray skies and rainy mornings, is teaching me endurance. It is teaching me that growth is not always visible, and that some of the most important seasons of life happen quietly, far away from crowded cities and constant movement.

The rain continued falling for hours today.

And somehow, instead of making the world feel smaller, it made it feel softer.