at 3 AM face
lifted up toward the sky, into a dark mist so lightweight my skin could not
feel the liquid
in my pajamas on
a weekend morning, twirling amidst fat, widely spaced drops, bare feet loving
the feel of dusty earth just tamped down by a spitting short rainfall
looking out the
window during work when I hear an almost-foreign sound, rain! pounding down for no more than thirty seconds, but for that
half minute feeling a huge grin spread across my face
my guts
a’flutter, exhilarated by the thickening dark gray sky and blustery air
gathering in the tree boughs
…clouds which
suddenly overflow, torrenting upon a desiccated landscape, helping to douse the
remains of a terribly destructive wildfire, wetting the tents in which hover
the now-homeless families from that firestorm – a mixed blessing or one that
came too late…
carefully
lifting and tilting dried fallen leaves in whose narrow folds the rainwater has
pooled – sliding thin streams of this holy water into a tiny holy vessel, once
the container for colored sand from a holy sandpainted mandala, now icon on my
nature calendar, an altar, really, representing day sixteen of the month
…seeing the
alert flash on my phone: in a city abroad in which I once overnighted, an
earthquake has struck – one hundred times more powerful than that which shook
our belongings into useless shards one year ago – with a tsunami warning in its
wake: waterwall rushing to add to the demise…
stepping outside
on a break from writing my book, waiting for the once-again too-light rain to
wet, or at least dapple with droplets, my thick hair – going inside cleansed on
the inside but absolutely, totally dry on the outside
the day after
the unexpectedly heavy rain I noticed where minute puddles, grand lakes for unseeable
life forms, remained in thin notches and shallow holes of things on the damp
ground; one was inches from a pencil-sized snake loosely curled into an oval
the shape of death and I wondered: had he reached the water would he still be
alive today
great privilege
to worry about the dubious comfort of others’ wet tents when all their material
goods and emotional safety have burnt out, and to be selective in how I might
help;
great privilege to notice the rain, feeling its blessings – safe from its destructive potential or not-enough-of-a-saving-grace-ness-of-it;
great privilege
to have a calling that affords flexibility enough to step out in the rain in
the interstices of daily life in which it might happen to briefly arrive
Observant and engaged, I am a rainseeker.
All blog images created & photographed by Jennifer J. Wilhoit unless otherwise noted. Please circulate images with photo credit: "©2015 JenniferJWilhoit/TEALarbor stories. AllRightsReserved."
