Rainy Weather

I watch them from the window, hear their singing as they follow the twirl and swing of pink polka-dots. Eliza thrusts her umbrella toward the clouds like a torch.

Knocking loudly on the pane, I point to a large, full-breasted robin slugging down worms right in front of them. He is large and proud, and not afraid of my knocking, or the girls.

They watch for a few seconds then skip over to the gutter where they can find handfuls of “baby” worms. They fill a mason jar with dirt, bathe their new friends in a red plastic bowl, then nestle them into a cozy glass house. At least it has a room with a view.

I put on my jacket, grab the camera and step outside. The shutter snaps and I can’t help but laugh at my girls’ affection for arthropods. It’s not long before they toss wisdom aside, peel coats and kick off their boots. The cold pavement and wet grass don’t bother them. Why should it bother me?

Slipping my hands into my pockets, I look up at the mountain and listen. My discontent begins to smooth and I notice the rain sounds like comfort feels. It is definitely a black rook day.

Lines from Sylvia Plath’s poem slide in, hover for a bit, then settle.

Nor do I. I’ve seen a robin instead of a rook. And it is me arranging and rearranging my feathers – trying to find the right way to live, struggling to hold it all together. None of us are expecting a miracle.

But I am like Plath.

The shroud over the mountain ruffles slightly and I catch a glimpse of the slope.

It is faint but beautiful, because behind the mist, something grand rises tall and wide. Raindrops grow bigger, heavier, and I hear the honking of two straggling geese as they fly overhead.

I turn to watch my girls who have decided a second bath is in order. Ali is now twirling and swinging polka-dots, Eliza and Sami slick worms with water. Eliza puts her arm around Sami’s shoulder and that is it for me. The otherwise inconsequent is now hallowed. It is the look on Sam’s face as she notices Eliza close to her that signals the sacred. I feel God’s breath and swill the love deep.

Giving my full attention to this moment, right now, is bigger than I think and in the sound of rushing water I hear His voice. He tells me how I ought to be – how we ought to be – with each other. That what we do is not important a how.

I am slow to hear. But slowing is the key.

It rains colder and we move inside. The rain feathers into a steady white and I keep thinking about Sylvia’s black rook.

I’ve been traveling through my own “season of fatigue… patching together a content” of sorts. But like her, I don’t want to travel the course ignorant of “angels that might flare at my elbow.” I want to see these incandescent intervals for what they are – not “tricks of radiance” – but moments when the world is clear and comprehensible. Moments when I know precisely how I ought to be.

I wrap my jacket around a hanger and return to the dailyness – to begin the wait, once more, for that “random [but maybe not so] rare descent.”