I’ll say this up front: I’m not a farmer, I don’t live on a farm, I don’t have farming family. Water levels don’t really affect my livelihood. I have sympathy for those who do fall into this category.

But rain, and the lack thereof, does affect my mood. Most people I know get depressed during the winter, with varying degrees of rainy day blues or seasonal affective disorder.

Me, I get depressed in summer. Is there anything more life-stifling than the sight of a cracking, parched paddock of almost white corpse grass? Or the knowledge that even in mid May, Ballarat’s water storage levels are at 7.4%?

Over the dry months, I feel about as alive as a strip of beef jerky. I start concocting elaborate survival plans for the day when the ocean levels rise so high that Australia becomes an archipelago. (Actually, I reckon that sounds pretty exciting, so long as you’re handy with an oar and have passed your Austswim lessons.) I used to think there was something wonderful in the seasonal cycle, the steady dance from the green months into the brown. Once upon a time, I even celebrated midsummer with a vaguely pagan rite that left me feeling completely content with the world.

Now, I get crotchety with every rainless week that passes. I stay inside and read about everlasting Narnian winters, and the soggy grass that Lucy and co. tramp through on their journey to Aslan. I despair of ever seeing anything green again. After all – most every day there’s another report on climate change being closer than we think; reports on the effect it’s already having on the wildlife. 

But last night, just over two weeks into the final month of autumn, it began to rain. I went to sleep in a glow of hazy hope, the patter of raindrops on the window the best lullaby of all. Perhaps, when I awoke, the ground would still be wet. Perhaps, this time, it would actually make a difference to the world outside my window.

As I write this, at 11.24am, it’s still raining.

There are puddles on the gravel driveway. Drops dripping from the gum trees. And, last but by no way least, rivulets flowing their eager way into our water tanks and storage dams.

Things could happen amidst all this water. The seasonal cycle is moving on again, albeit in an excruciatingly slow, grinding sort of way. Life could – and will – take hold. Eventually, plants will unfurl and begin to grow again.

And so, I hope, will I.