Raindrops

The rain seems to be confronting me at all angles of my life today. The sound of the drops hitting the pitched roof of my loft writing space, dribbling down the skylight windows, the plunking of it now bouncing off and running into the gutters, pulling me back to an understanding, one that I have come to, and then let go off, so many times before on a day such as this. It is the understanding that I need to stop, abruptly, sharply, without rhythm or reason at times, to rethink challenges, position in life, and every other position in same way, shape, or form, that is all about me. Then I let it go, pull myself together, glue back my sidewalls, and push on.

After a while of typing away in fury on my keyboard, I tend to sit and listen to the sound of rain on these days. In mid summer I do the same whatever - wherever type of ritual, but it is not rain, it is the sun then that I allow to mesmerize me and privatize thoughts in summer's heat as it drains down my shoulders and back. I would sit in the sun, warmth on my shoulders, close my eyes, and recharge my batteries, so to speak.

The rain, today, like the sun, is both soothing and comforting, pushing me into a quiet repose, as the cars on the street can be heard splashing up water onto driveways.That is actually the only sound I hear, other than the heaviness of the rain, and the blowing of the wind on saturated tree branches. Once the rain ends, tomorrow's sun will gleefully approach, and I will l once again be left to begin again, the picking up of the pieces of my life.

The one foot in front of the other approach will creep it's way back in, and I will let it in, as I have done so many times before when life was completely disrupted, shattered, by unexpected turn of events and challenges. I will look to the right, look to the left, then charge off in some form of forward motion, using careful placement of my feet. Right here, right now, though, I will sit, close my eyes, and listen to the sound of the rain on my rooftop, and to the wind that blows through the crevice of my slighly jarred opened window, scattering the pile of paper at the end of my desk precariously all over the floor. I will pick up the pile, assemble the pages and begin again, from page one.