Friday Quick Pick: Rainy Rumination

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The rain is generous here,
manifesting its chameleon ways.
It beguiles and rages,
tap dances and waltzes,
arrays the city’s narrow streets
in a rainbow of taupe, bisque, slate;
calls cyclists and walkers
to come nest in cubbyholes
with a strong coffee or beer
and ponder from windows the
voluptuous clouds, their churlish rebuke.

Rainfall does not bother to cease
for rewards of joy or taxing sorrow,
will not flee farther eastward
to high desert, rocky buttes.
It commands, feeds bloated earth
and rattles the awnings
and rushes headlong into
mountains and rivers as if
it must bury every crevasse
and slick down every abutment.

And, too, drench our souls,
which pine for small luxury–to step
onto pathways with no slimy mud,
no gutter a shocking flood, to avoid
more wreckage of yet another
month that may miraculously
reveal fine blue horizons,
emergent from that muck and drear.

So as the brazen clouds regroup,
restrain deluge and drizzle,
we enter gardens long at rest,
see anew the rewards of wetness,
how it does right by its duty:
sumptuous blossoms, chittering birds,
the trafficked pond, waterfalls’ chorus,
our hearts hitched up again
as senses feast on seasons
defended, recreated by copious rains.

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Friday’s Passing Fancies/Poem: A Rain Healing

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Prelude to winter’s grand opening,
flush me with rain’s old arias,
invite creeks, rivers to turn me
like a single rusted ruby leaf
which knows no fear of falling.

Release me into fern canopy,
moss bedstead, stony path to rest
so that heaven’s sheer blood
runs rich and swift to my heart.

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This Rain of Solitude

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The subtly greyed and matted clouds release fat drops and with it, its brief burden. Vast tangles of plants drink up, leaves dancing. The earth is an ancient darkened sponge, its green and multicolored varietals like personal attendants caring for its wellness. I want to disturb nothing, be only welcomed. Each stone and seed and bit of dirt, every worm and insect has been waiting for another rain and I, with them.

Sunshine presses against the drear; the day won’t let it in, or only so the air is gauzy with its brief pearlescence. Distant chimes vocalize in the sodden breeze as if heralding this gathering of moisture. Fragrances are released around my feet as I pause on a woodland pathway. My chest opens to inhale the primeval perfume of Noble firs. The damp expands in my lungs, courses to my face and fills my eyes with tears that detour to lodge in my throat. The rain covers me lightly and I am released into its favor.

I cannot walk far. The hard boot on my foot protects a broken toe and hinders exploration, but I persist. September’s argent air is transformed by an alchemy of ribbon of golden light; witnesses include myself and birds making note. Their voices are ebullient, soon half-tamed by more seepage from the sky. My hood goes up and I plod on.

The sturdiness of the day is apparent. I see it in the faces of those who pass with eager dogs in hand, children chortling as they play “catch and be caught” with a parent. But for me an almost tender solitude awakens inside the ashen quiet. It pulls me further into the woods as if we, too, play some devious game, pursued and pursuant. The air is a soft jostle on my skin. Trees whisper incantations only they can interpret though I listen deeply. I want to see what they see from their green glistening crowns but cannot scurry there.

Once, as a child, I did. Not here but elsewhere. Desire for another place and time folds me into a thousand paper cranes. What wish can be granted? Nostalgia makes me pull my jacket closer as rain seeks skin. But wishes are not real and my prayers are for something else. For stamina. For the gratitude and care that will keep it afloat. At this thought, my sister’s face somehow finds me, the one who passed in spring. My eyes close. Is this solitude made of a sheaf of tenderness, of grief, or foolish yearning? How alone we are, yes, unto loneliness when we do not suspect it.

A phantom–not my sister, no; something never bodied yet recognizable–is shadowing me. It wraps itself around my shoulders like a comfortable but holey shawl, one that’s woven with losses and longings. More, a spectral thing that has no voice but those found inside dreaming and imagining, no words but those uttered without sound. It’s name is melancholy.

It is an old companion. It will not desert me even now when nearer the denouement of my adventures rather than beginnings. There may be reasons why it comes upon me in this rain-blessed wood or any other moment but they matter less and less. A knowledge of sadness arrives with us as we exit the refuge of our mothers. Humans are made to manage its shifting weight alongside lightness of elation. It’s counterbalance, acceptance. At times I hold this sadness close like a lost thing, its vulnerable ache a plea not refusable.

I am seized by a restless longing and the desire to weep. I cannot run with foot impaired and so I wait.

The power of the trees, bold and tall amid the drenching rain, is the power of time, of being tested and found mighty, so now remaining. They incorporate a mystery we cannot know enough with mind but with our blood, in the dormant spheres of soul. In the gleaming, darkening wood there is this reminder: at the heart of sorrow is a beauty; in the center of beauty is infinite renewal.

I breathe in the piney air, let my being rest.

Melancholia is a remembering and a forgetting. It lets me see backwards to all the times I knew what love was, and all the times I did not. It takes me to innocence and slow shredding of it. It hears the keening of the world and gathers in my small voice. But it urges me to believe in something finer than all that has been misplaced or traded or lost. For my heart to be offered to the world as if it was indestructible.

The touch of all this is enough to hurl me right back to God. I ask how does one person make a difference but the woods are silent and watchful of my species. Kind, yes, the grand old firs, but unwilling to tell me more than what they already have. It must be enough. And I, as well, within this lonliness. And so I leave.

Melancholia plunges me into deeper waters of place and people, of body and soul. And so the rain today has carried me along. I have learned that to surge against its movement will result in a price I do not want to pay. I heed this and give in. It is one more feeling only, another bit of evidence that reveals that I am alive upon this earth.

At home again, I am listening to Howard Hanson’s Symphony No. 2, Op. 30, “Romantic”. It takes me to that part of life where music has ever spoken to me with vivid promises. Where sweetness evolves from sour, good blooms from maligned or discarded seed.

As a teen during too brief a season in my life–those ectstatic youthful times–the one in which I was making music daily, I found treasures that stay with me. Though impetuous I was kept moving forward with ongoing lessons in self-discipline, gaining strength for the years to come. I thrived on nourishment of my innermost being and could not imagine otherwise.

I recall one summer, perhaps age fourteen. I would stand apart from other arts campers, shoulders back, spine so straight then (that age giving me a glimpse of sensual perfection) as forest breath mingled with mine. I surveyed the wide indigo lake nestled between black-green northern pines and knew it was going to be alright, all of it, Hurts and yearnings. Tenuous hope and intense, mind-boggling wonder. Knew that there would never be any other choice but to give way to a passionate devotion to life, come what may. I felt it as God’s presence, mysterious and potent. There was a true point of balance within reach if I released my fears. In reality it became so, later. But a tinge of sadness–that what we adore can be taken from us and this includes everything– remained like a secret, buried deep, indelible as the color of my eyes.

I am writing in the midst of a softer, quieter September afternoon, as if the rainfall has removed brittleness from the last vestiges of summer. As if the land is made fecund with different bounties. Wet winds have ceased to sweep across the city while throngs of clouds float by, their vaporous innards aglimmer with autumn light. There is a richness stirring within me. I stay very still.

The Sky, the Rain and Moving Through the Night

From my bed at night, the world as experienced through window blinds seems a finely wrought, haunting place.  The sky is silent and deep. The streets rustle with animal and people feet, each voice clearer than in daylight. In my urban neighborhood, night stories unfold like moon flowers, brief and mysterious, perhaps desperate or passionate. I follow them as I lie awake at two, three, four in the morning after something awakens me–a couple calling to each other across a street,  cats in love, a siren slashing through the darkness, the swish of many bicycle tires. Or the past comes alive: someone loved and lost. A small replay of grandchildren singing to me. The peculiar drama of a murky nightmare. Pain in a place I had ignored in daytime that now berates me. But I am at ease in the middle of the night, so give in to its essence. I settle in and drift as though on a sturdy boat.

 The window is left ajar in all weather so air can flow in and out. The blinds are usually shut against any light, but when sleep does not reclaim me, I open them, as well, just enough to see the elements at play, the roof lines of neighboring houses and an apartment building. That is, if I put my glasses on. Without contacts or glasses everything blurs like watercolors on paper. Still, myopia may be responsible for my being at ease in the dark in the first place; I learned sightless navigation from an early age. Night always called me, a secret place of calm and curiousness, senses altered by lack of light but increased quiet, the mind fully alert. It is like walking into a vast space where no one else seems present but things still happen. I am surprised, and usually take comfort.

I could read when insomnia strikes, and occasionally I do, taking the first book off the stacks beside the bed. And I sometimes am taken over by a poem or the first lines of a new short story. But a greater attraction is the sound of the wind as it barrels up the Columbia River Gorge and stirs up the sweet gum and big leaf maple branches. There are the delicate scents of pansies and lemony gardenia drifting from the balcony garden. Roses have been known to intoxicate long after summer. I inhale, lean against the pillows. The bands of sky I see are lighter, sooner that I expect, ebony turning to a deep dove grey, but sometimes I catch a glimpse of the North star if I raise the blinds higher.

As a child I waited for the first snow, going to sleep in great anticipation, the air sharp and clean and full of promise. Now, long gone from Michigan, I wait for the first deluge of our Northwest autumn. Last week I heard it arrive, at first a gentle crescendo so faint I had to sit very still to be convinced it was rain sliding off the roof, splashing against the asphalt. I felt the air breathing. The birds stopped what little they were doing and held fast to branches. Then the rain began to vocalize, fat tear shapes crashing all around like they couldn’t wait to get to earth. Then they joined together in a veil of wetness, falling upon all, hitting my screen sideways, cool spray jumping onto my hands as they pressed against the screen. I nearly got out of bed and went to stand in the triumph of it all.

So the rains had truly, finally begun. I closed my eyes and heard the rapturous sound, smelled the loamy-mineral scent. Sensed the red and yellow dying leaves being happily pressed against dirt and cement. Tasted the richness of rain like a balm. The dark earth welcomed the cascade, and the whole night was transformed.

The sky, the rain found me in the darkness and we then kept each other company as though old lovers.  Brushed velvet sky with its divine embrace, rain a sashay of glistening sound, light that sifted the darkness of this autumnal night.  Relief of rain rain rain rain rain