Singing in the rain.
The Monchique winter is often mild and from time to time we have rain.
If it rains it is mostly for a day but it can really pour, solid water coming down like a massive curtain and then the next day the sun is shining again.
Yesterday it was a gentle rain, a soft drizzle almost like a mist. Our lady gardener came despite the rain. She brought flowers that had to be planted, she said, and then there is no arguing.
She is from Monchique, born, grew up there and hardly ever leaves the small rural town.
When we drink a tea or coffee she does not say a lot, she’s a bit shy or maybe simply silent but has a lot of wisdom, obtained through observing and processing life. When she is in the garden, on her knees with her hands moving the fertile earth she loves to talk about plants.
Yesterday I was observing her from under the porch. The rain slowly soaked her sweater, her knees sank in the silky soil while she planted violets and small carnations. No hurry, no irritations because of the rain. Every little plant was cared for as if they were her children, opening the earth carefully putting the fragile roots in the earth and closing the hole with two fingers.
In the meantime, she was singing, and her name is Grace