Rain. I am obsessed with it. I live for it. At night, I strain to hear it in my sleep. I love walking in it, don’t have sense enough to come in out of it, thrill to hear it forecast on the weather channel. My favorite foreign locations all have rainy reputations: Ireland, England, Germany.
Maybe moving to Oklahoma has intensified my obsession—craving what we don’t have. I moved to OK from what is billed as the rainiest city in America: Hilo, Hawaii. Unlike the most popular of the islands, the Hilo side of the Big Island, is the “rainy” side. It generally rains at least once a day. Sometimes these are only what we called “drive-by” downpours: literally a few seconds of hard rain; other times it rains all night but is sunny during the day—the perfect formula for most Hawaiians. When I first moved to Hilo in January 2008, it was raining when I landed and did not stop for a full month. This is no exaggeration. It did not even take a hiccup of relief. That was a bit much even for me, but the only thing that slightly got on my nerves was the incessant beating on the tin roof. Don’t get me wrong: I love nothing better than the pattering of rain on a tin roof, but this was more like construction, a constant hammering. I don’t recall its raining that relentlessly ever again over the four years I lived there, and I admit I missed it. I kept hoping it had not been a fluke and would occur again, even every other year or so. It didn’t, but it did rain at least a little every day. I loved that.
What do we call someone who loves rain as much as I do? I went to the Phrontistery website for the proper term, but did not find it listed. I found the names for other things I’m overly fond of: dendrophilous (trees) ailurophilia (cats), even logophile (words)—but not rain. The closest thing I found was ombrophilous (one who is tolerant of large amounts of rainfall), and since ombrophobia is the fear of rain, I would deduce a rain lover is an ombrophiliac. Call me what you will. Rain lover. That’s me.
I’ll close with this poem I wrote once in England:
England in November
“…the rain has such small hands”
–e. e. cummings
when rain is constant
company, all things
shift to its capricious
whim, seduced by soft
persistence to sink
down in its ubiquitous
embrace, a moat deep
against all else
long rain’s lover, I
have known such quiet
intimacy, warmed my
fingers at its fluid
fire, melted memory
cold into grey
forgetfulness
and rose, released from
remembering, discounting
all other offers
adulterous
clumsy and
inadequate
face, mirrored in its own,
shining wet with
rain, sweet, and
savory tears.
brileyrebecca 
Ahh! I love.
I love the rain as well, just not when I’ve fixed my hair. 🙂
How interesting that all of your favorite places (or some, at least) have rainy reputations. I wonder if they are the reasons why you love rain, or if you love rain because of those places. I’ve read this poem before, but I love it and feel that I could read it a hundred more times. The second stanza is my favorite… “melted memory cold into grey forgetfulness.” Ah! Thank you for sharing!
Thank you! I think the love of rain came first, and then the love of the places that harbor rain…at least that coincides with my earliest memories, which are of rain on the tin roof of my grandmother’s house.
Nice! I, too, love rain–probably where you get it, daughter of mine! A rainy day, a good book–as close to heaven as it gets on earth.
Ah, yes!
pluviophile
Yes! Thank you!
Isn’t the term Pluviophile?
I enjoyed this post, and your writing. You inspired me to include pluviophile in one of my poems. Here it is:
*Every Nook and Every Cranny of the Earth*
The rain comes
and we wait
for the lines of poetry
to spill out into patterns.
We wait for our words to echo what the rain says
and how it splashes in an ordered chaos.
Perhaps it’s something inherent in rain
that brings us to poetry.
With all of the pluviophiles stirring
when the large drops begin to fall
like kamikazes from the sky
and all of the poets slink by like salamanders
through the wide-open fields
that are greener and more abandoned when it rains.
We walk alone under the weight of sagging gray clouds,
clouds that grew too heavy for themselves
until they split open and poured their insides out
continuously onto the earth.
Poets are rain creatures who are full
when the mountains are obscured
by dense, coiling mists and shades of storm.
We are full when everything is inundated.
And we need to be emptied like the rain clouds.
We cannot help ourselves, to be
like the rain.
The storms drift like giant tumultuous beasts,
groping blindly at the mountains, at odds
with themselves as if processing
the most obscure, unimaginable thoughts
and crying about it endlessly.
Something in us awakens when
there’s the possibility of flood.
When the waters rise
and the land and every object
is a single receptive body.
It’s as if there is a great metaphor
that we can’t quite see or understand
but want to write about
when the skies bruise and burst into showers.
And there is movement in the dark ravines somewhere.
And there’s water flowing through the labyrinth
of underground tunnels somewhere, and every nook
and every cranny of the earth
is touched.
To Jack Stull- What a wonderful poem! You have talent! Thank you for taking the time to post it.
Claudia
Reblogged this on makeupmaureen and commented:
ombrophiliac kindred soul
Pluviophile
(n) a lover of rain; someone who finds joy and peace of mind during rainy days
Petrichor
(n) the smell of earth after rain
It is actually called ….. pluviophile!
I did not know there was another in Oklahoma that loved rain like me! I live for the damp, cool drizzly days. Like winter in Seattle. I live for it and the Oklahoma summers nearly kill me—every year.
That’s why I had to move back to Kentucky! OK nearly killed me too!
I love the rain sooooo much! It conjures up childhood memories of a warm loving environment with parents who were nurturing. My mom would make comfort meals like savoury stews and marble cake with buttercream icing. We would gather in the kitchen and enjoy each other’s company while the rain splattered against the window. To this day I look forward to rainy stormy weather. When my attic is restored I look forward to hearing the heavy England rain on the roof. It will again transport me back to a lovely time when troubles were few and every rainy day was a joy.
Hi:) Im a lover of rain too ❤ ❤
I was born on a rainy day and every year since it has rained on my birthday (okay, it has been sunny 6 of the times but 32 out of 38 years is still special!)
Anyway, I stumbled across your blog and wanted to share a couple words that I’ve come to know over the years:
A lover of rain is a pluviophile.
The smell just after a rainfall is petrichor.
And thank you for the new word! From one ombropiliac to another!