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goodbye, late autumn rain... it's beautiful out here — and by out here, I mean beyond the tight corridor of my own thoughts. outside, where the fertile ground bends under the moist air, carrying the metallic hush of a sudden thunder's whispering prologue... of course, I'm cozy; of course, I’m holding a cup of black coffee like a beloved trinket in my hands... all the while, the storm rolls in; all the while, the present moment arrives again and again and again and again... again, I notice — this moment is not fragile so much as it is fluid; it doesn’t vanish; it doesn't linger; it is here, it transforms, always in flow, again and again and again and again.
I take a sip of my coffee, I look at the sky, the lightening within this landscape but a single white nerve, illuminating the ribs of the heavens above. the scent of petrichor rises, deep and mineral, as refined as merlot in a crystal glass, as luminous as a pearl resting at the hollow of my collarbone... and, again — I get lost along the way of these acoustic motifs within reality, I daydream, I fall in love, I love myself, though — a sip of coffee steadies me... bitter, warm, honest, consistent, stimulating... I awaken. and, again — I'm here in this natural form, on this natural rock... I receive romance, but I can still reach for humility... and out here, beginnings are constant; the storm is not destruction but renewal; a broken branch feeds the soil; the birds might disappear, but they retreat into shelter, all without commentary or philosophy.
inside, I have been narrower. limited to interpretations, to looping reactions, to the old machinery of fear and vigilance. I have lived too long in this limbo, scanning for what this or that might signify. and in the quiet corners of marriage and motherhood, there are distances that accumulate like dust — small avoidances, unspoken fatigue, anxieties, misunderstandings... here, it is easy to turn ache into another sad story; here, it is easy to suffer.
but I do not have to suffer at all; I can remind myself of the storm outside... and the storm does not concern itself with flimsy narratives.
outside, presence is refuge. I am the witness. there is something merciful about this posture, watching the rain, rejoicing in the thunder, saying goodbye to autumn... I am not separate from the trembling leaves or the electric sky; the same charge that splits the clouds hums in my body; the same gravity that pulls the rain towards the Earth keeps me grounded, free to grow wild in fertile attention, free to transform, always in flow, again and again and again and again.
