Two days of gentle rain
has refreshed the spring smells in the garden.
Middle-sized roses hang their heads heavy with the collected moisture,
and young buds seem perkier. The rain
came through so quietly, I barely noticed its patter on the deck.
I wonder if there is a
raindrop somewhere who falls screaming from the sky, so full of anxiety about
where it’s going and what it’s going to feel like when it gets there? I wonder, does it worry about who it will
meet? Does a raindrop see itself as whole
or as shattering and splintering when it crashes into windshields, windows? Or does it feel like part of a new existence
when it hits a puddle then is splattered by tires or the rubber boots of small
children?
I’d like to think it
get lessons in this when it’s part of the heavenly sky; quick classes in how to
be a successful raindrop! Is there a
greater consciousness surrounding it and letting it know it will never be lost,
only changed again and again, and asked to acquiesce each time?
I think it must just
let loose, surrender to the fall, comforted with the thought that it will flow
with others, blend with whatever it touches, and find a common ground so as to
be absorbed into the atmosphere when the sun comes out.
What a blessing to have
that knowing. Perhaps it would be akin
to a sense of peace.
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