Monday, March 10, 2014
(Continued from page 1)
We made it back just before the heavy rain began to fall. I fed the dog some leftover chicken and about five pills to keep her epilepsy, thyroid, incontinence and other problems at bay, and led her upstairs to what was at that moment the coolest room of the cabin -- a place with cross-currents of wind and a view from the screens of water rivulets running so hard and straight off the roof that they looked like skeins of wool being pulled on a loom.
I stood at the top of the stairs, watching the rain weave a liquid tapestry on the roof and thought for a moment my heart would break with the beauty of the world proceeding unnoticed. I could imagine shoppers hurrying, umbrellas or unprotected, to their cars, paper bags soaked with rain. I could see in my mind the little perculations of the river now pelted into small bowls and rippling circles, no longer suggesting schooling fish, unless they were blues running.
Out in the great woods beyond my windows, the world was green and luscious and lapping up the rain. Everything looked healthy and draped with lacy ferns -- a place not yet mapped but full of promise.
For a few minutes in the chaos of the storm, it was the dawn of creation. I was so grateful to be there, to have perhaps a glimpse of the grace that is delivered in a tattered leaf or drop of rain.
Our storm turned out to be a hymn, which is what we always hope for -- something familar but neither thundering nor fierce.
We were content with the lullaby of the refuge in the storm, to curl up under covers light as lichen and call it a day, a good day at that.
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