The past two weeks in New England has been this constant flexing of rain patters. From drizzling to downpour, to merely clouded skies to heavy drops- all of it comes in unsteady shifts. At night as I’m going to sleep with my window open, all I can do is lay there LISTENING, just absorbing the sound of the wet- embracing the soaked world around me that is living out this understanding of a moving, dripping, sometimes thunderous peace.
Right now, in the ensemble of drops meeting the materials outside my window, I hear the small, sharp tin-tin of singular drops darting into rain gutters. I hear that slapping noise of water hitting pavement and forming puddles. And I hear those rushes of water slipping off the leaves- the quick torrent of small drops one after the other that sounds like a towel being wrung out before being hung to dry on the line.
It’s the chatter of weather and the pacemaker of breathing as my mind unwinds and uncurls its desperate, controlling grasp on my thoughts. Everything wanders, like this, and my lungs take over to match natural rhythms of falling rain, of natural breathing, of the simplest form of existing.
In my hot yoga classes, most of my focus while I’m contorting my body into the most hysterical positions is actually on my breathing. Through my massage today, I lost myself in the sound of my breathing to keep my muscles from fighting the wonderful work she did on my back. Now, here in my bed with a glass of red and another birthday behind me, I fling wide my arms to invite the tin-tin, lazy plop, and wrung out towel droplets falling outside my window.
I invite the water, the cleanliness, the noise, and the smell of the water as it forgives the earth.
And I breathe.
“And it was raining cats and dogs outside of her window, and- she knew they’d be destined to become sacred roadkill on the way, as she was listenin’ to the sound of heavens shaking and thinkin’ about puddles, puddles and mistakes…” --- Regina Spektor. braille.