THESE ARE THE DAYS OF RAIN (SUBLIME, SACROSANCT, AND JUST SO)

At early dusk I could sense a slight change. The air. The sky. It’s almost not perceptible. Well, the sunny day has gone away then. It’s like there is some long electrical time of air, hours even, that prepare the way for more rain.  This is the season of rain; these are the days of rain, and the nights also. The little rivers overflow. The wires that hold rocks in ravine sides shake. I think of ideas like nonduality, eternity, enlightenment, reincarnation. All these groups that talk of such have parts of the puzzle, and ultimately preach the same thing. The cosmology is easy, - simple in fact, - all is one divided up, and each comes again and again, learning, changing, but always being, at root, - the same source, and the same oneness, connected as a matter of fact to the Godhead. But we are here, not in the yogic big dream- so we negotiate and navigate. Green light. Red Light. Toe Nails. The wind knocks over some flower containers somewhere. Main Street is not for me, literally or figuratively. The town. It’s quite large. The bulldozers and home makers have cleanly wrecked many acres of forest, disturbed the eco system locally and perhaps even wider than that, - in ways that maybe we can’t yet even understand. In school they taught us about cross cutting, patch cutting, and clear cutting. Of course clear cutting is the worst, and this is the natural and common practice of all these urban sprawl constructionists. It’s so utterly unoriginal, grey, without character or soul. Ah well. I watch, I move on. Try and find the forest and field, the small stream, chill out with the butterfly and moth, the wildflowers and the feral shrubs. Deep in the forest there is a large tree fallen and the root system is a world for insects and bees and moss. It sits sideways and the sun catches it nicely, like the beloved catching your heart, fully, quickly but calmly, above all rightly. Then, a hill. And a valley top. And a long and winding narrow path. Afterwards, down and down, to another path, which leads eventually to a wide opening. When you enter the opening, you are full of a quiet joy, a wonder, because the land is quite vast and because not many people go there, - it has a high vibration. Sometimes there is a deer around there, or something else, - at other times a group of hawks are circling in the far distance. I have seen it on the coldest of February days, and I have seen it on the most perfect and picaresque summer days. But these days it is mostly rainy, overcast, and a bit moody if not outright dour. However, sometimes the sun rises and kisses the entire place, drying it like a good warm towel straight from the dryer. In the mid dusk it has cooled, and then the late dusk and the night. Breezes blow; - the air is pregnant with possibility. I think rain will let itself in the night. The wildflowers out there are taken over by the dark, and the wild things perhaps rest in dens and nests, but also come out to wander, hunt, play, to even love, and look in general. Something of the summer’s guts and spirit is sublime, sacrosanct, and just so, - even if and when, and, oh heck, maybe somehow especially if, - it rains. 


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