Saturday, December 5, 2020
Watching the rain fall today in its somewhat blasé, easygoing way, I see that it’s sort of the way I’m living my life lately. I’m 79, and I guess I’ve done enough orderly, careful living that I can now deserve some carefree, devil-may-care days. The rain seems to sway this way and that in a totally stress-free manner, and I’m trying to let my life do something similar – lean wherever things want me to lean, swing this way or that with sorrows or joys, bend (instead of break) with the winds of change. However, being blithe about things doesn’t mean being lazy or muddled, just free of the wish to control everything. The rain controls nothing, but simply sails where the weather wants it to, and I’m learning by watching. If I’m lucky, my life in the coming days and years may be more like peacefully flowing than strenuously producing.
BLESSED RAIN a poem about Sharon Z., 82, Blessings, CT One morning, rain was falling on Blessings, and it was careful to wash and praise all things, even soiled fences and the faces of goldfinches at the feeder. This rain was finding ways to work wonders with the leaves of bushes and the broken stones in walls beside her gardens. It gave its gifts to her silver hair as she spoke to the fresh green shoots standing fearlessly in the rain and being blessed by it in Blessings, a town that tells everyone everyday to fall softly into bliss the way rain was falling on and strengthening Sharon's spirited crocus shoots.