seeds to flowers

Walking in the rain is my favorite. Not the gushing downpours usually associated with my working outside in the summer, but the gentle, soft and cool rain that comes as a surprise because you couldn't hear it from inside the house. The kind that makes you say, "Oh! It's raining!" and you go out anyway.

At times, like today, the rain is especially welcome. Rain, clearly, has a cleansing quality--washing last night's humidity out of the air, and leaving instead that wonderful rain smell that sustains (many of) us until the next rain. Rain also has a cleansing quality for the soul, and as we walked today, we spoke of some of the more difficult aspects of our youngest days. Somehow, sharing the things that can hurt the most are easier in the rain, less drastic, and ever-so-less painful.

Why is that? Why does rain make me feel more open to hear, more open to tell? Perhaps it's the feeling that the heavens or the cosmos is involved somehow. Or that God has opened up a little, so we feel less alone. Maybe it's the tenebrosity, the lack of light, that makes us feel a little safer, a little more open. A little more loved. It may even be the wetness of the rain itself, enhancing a fluidity in our feelings and emotions. Water seeks its own level, and fluidity in one's soul would clearly move to a more level spot....

And yet, the things we talked about bubbled up from the depths. The overflowed through what felt like the smallest of cracks in a carefully constructed barrier. Things that should have sounded awful, but, with the help of the rain, were diluted enough to be tolerable; not likable, but bearable. Raindrops mixed with tears, and slid away; softly, easily, nearly without notice.

When my father died, it snowed. Like crazy. Like over three feet crazy. By the time we got home, everything had iced over, and we had a heck of a mess to clean up, just to get in our driveway. It was late, it was dark, and we were so very tired. Bone tired from sorrow, driving, and plain old exhaustion. I remember that moving that snow and ice was so symbolic for me. It wasn't rain; it wasn't soft, or gentle, cleansing or pure. It was hard and cold, with sharp edges and so much weight--just like my very core, my heart, my being. I screamed at the snow; threw great big boulders of icy whiteness into the yard with all my might. It helped, but not nearly as much as running water.

Today's rain is gentle and light--not a shower, but slightly more than a sprinkle. And, in the early morning hours of our walk, was just what we needed. Just what I needed. My pains and hurts are no greater than anyone else's, but they are my burden, and mine alone until I share them. The fact that others -- someone, somewhere -- is worse off than I am sometimes discourages me from sharing and lightening my load. Walking in the rain, with someone who wants to hear, equalizes the pressure, and only then can I grow.

Only then can I grow.