There was something in the air today,
a strange kind of stillness.
It rained in Düsseldorf after many days of sunshine—
but not the kind of rain that chills the bones.
It was warm.
Soft.
A spring drizzle.
And still, it felt unusual to me.
Having grown up in Lebanon,
where warm weather always meant dry skies,
I am still surprised—decades later—when spring rain comes.
The warmth and rain together confuse my senses,
like two notes played out of key.
And yet,
there’s something deeply connective in the rain.
It conducts feeling.
It brings the sky closer.
It slows people down.
It creates reflections in puddles,
makes umbrellas bloom like flowers,
and paints the city with a soft gloss that you can’t see on dry days.
As a photographer,
I welcome this moodiness.
The strange melancholy,
the blurred colors,
the shifting light on slick surfaces.
Today,
as I walked my usual route by the river,
everything felt familiar yet altered.
The bridges stood still,
the reflections shimmered with stories,
and two umbrellas—one pink, one green—carried quiet conversations beneath them.
The camera saw more than my eyes could.
And just like that,
the walk cut through the strangeness of the day
and returned me to myself.
