Today, it’s pouring intermittently.
The sky is gunmetal gray and the birds are damp and thoughtful.
In the pink hanging geranium on our porch, two house finch eggs in the nest of six have hatched. The mother bird, now accustomed to our comings and goings, doesn’t fly off in a panic every times we pass by—an act that has startled us as consistently as our activity has startled her.
All of us has our own business on our minds.
I can see the geranium from my desk, which abuts the front windows that face the road. Our window boxes hold pots of weakening pansies, a leggy plant formerly unfamiliar to me that blooms tiny purple flowers that scatter and make a mess, and colorful early spring lettuces.
I have the windows open as I write this post. It’s pouring softly, which soothes my sense of urgency. I have so much work to do—but the rain gently hushes my anxiety. I pause to let my senses overtake my brain. A neighborhood car splashes by and I picture puddle-jumping in plastic red boots as a child.
Rainy days were just as enlightening as sunny ones back then.
For what else is rain but nourishment? What is an egg but the promise of new life? And what is birdsong but that house finch doing her job well—without apology, without ambition, and with an expert joy that is our native state of being, if we allow for it?
A garbage truck rumbles past with its interrupting growl and stink. Next, my beloved tuxedo cat, Oreo, shows up from somewhere else in the house. He purrs enormously and begins making biscuits on the throws on the armchair beside my desk. He’ll settle into a nose-whistling nap before I finish writing my next paragraph.
I notice that every time the rain slows and the sky brightens, even slightly, the birds start singing again. What does that say about the nature of things?
A time for rain. A time for sun. A time to reflect. A time to sing. Is there a constant? It might be Oreo, my good and loving companion, along with enough silence and space to keep on writing.