Last night it rained for what had to be hours but could have been minutes. I drifted in and out of meditation and thunder and slumber and the sound of trees becoming and remaining drenched. Several dreams were interrupted by sharp fangs of lightning taking the dark in its white teeth--even the dark beneath my closed eyelids. No darkness off limits to a flash of light. A storm like this one would have frightened me 20 years ago. Thunder so close and booming, it felt accusatory. I always had the urge to hide, knowing there was no fear off limits to a roll of thunder. I remember feeling like the storm wanted the stretch of earth directly under me. And it would crack me and the sky in half to get to it. I suppose that fear is not entirely gone. Sometimes my entire world rumbled, and I could understand where Little Me was coming from.
It rained harder than it has in months. I opened my window to listen to it and feel the mist adjust the temperature of my room to its likeness. I was alone with this overpowering downpour of water; it’s a wonder I didn’t manage to cry and join it. But I filled my lungs with the cool air tinged by heavy rain--smiling often, forgiving my stream of consciousness often. Breathing became religious again.
