Rain, Glorious Rain

I was outside when the first sprinkles began to fall. It has been long since the last rain. The corn was standing with leaves spiked. Even the leaves of my bamboo were curling to conserve moisture. I sat there in the dirt and continued digging weeds for a time while singing little tunes of gratitude to and for the rain. So far this is a gentle rain, just right for softening the soil to receive more. Already everything appears greener and taller as it telescopes skyward to get its share of moiture.

All of creation, including me, seems to be breathng a sigh of opening and gentling. I know I anthropomorphizing here. Nature has its way of simply coping with whatever comes. There are many reports of nature preparing for or fleeing coming diasters but it doesn't seem to ascribe meaning to the comings and goings of weather. A tree doesn't second guess whether it should have called in so much of its reserves to resprout leaves after the frost that killed the initial tender growth. I worry about how the tree will survive with too little water after already being stressed but I have no evidence that it worries about that. I doubt my concern for it is even welcomed.

Nature seems to operate by stimulus and response. No rain? Ok, conserve water, slow growth, reduce surface area to reduce evaporation. It skips the interpretive step of ascribing meaning or determining blame or guilt. Much of my own discomfort comes from the stories I create about what something means or what I may have done to create the current circumstance. Mostly my mental masturbation just delays action and makes me feel worse still.

My friend suggested that the mind is best used for doing math and such pragmatic activities instead of processing feelings. Feelings are dependent on the story. As the story changes, so do my feelings. There is nothing objective about them. I am sure feelings have a place in determining danger or opportunity as in having a gut feeling. They do provide feedback about the nature of the story I am telling myself. I just don't need to play in them like I am in a sandbox building castles unless I am conscious that that is what I am doing so I can quit that activity when I am done and cleanly move onto something else. My suffering comes in when I carry over one story into another completely unrelated activity.

The rain has slowed again. I am headed out to play in the mud, digging crab grass, amending the soil and planting geraniums. Just that, leaving other stories behind. Having that choice is why I love my life so much!