A Monsoon Afternoon

Friday August 7th 2015
I rained off and on all afternoon. I spent the afternoon in delight and writing about the experience in a naked body, as follows:

I take a walk in the desert.

I slip on my fivetoe KSO’s. The rain has stopped pouring in wind swept sheets. I will listen out at the edge of my property for flowing water in the desert. If none, I will take a stroll through my desert stealth/nature trail. When I open the front door, I notice that it is sprinkling. As I begin my walk, it starts to rain again. This time, it is very different, a calm pour, no winds, and warm large drops. What a treat, naked in the rain again.

I see no flow of water, and hear no sound of the creek running in the distance. I take the stealth trail. The path is soaked, the sandy soil bloated and soft. My shoes sink deeply into this, sometimes three or more inches, leaving what looks like barefoot tracks. A community of red ants have taken over a long section of my trail, a length where it had been trail before my construction. I do my best to avoid disrupting them, but accidents happened. I hear the drops of rain splashing on the nearby plants, as is my own experience in this body. Often, I hear just the crunch of my feet on the freshly disturbed washed clean sand, as my foot intricately, grinds through it. The sun comes out, the rain stops, the sun comes out in just this spot where I walk. The humidity nearly instantly changes from cool to a steaming, like any tropical jungle. But this is a desert.

I stop to survey the distant vistas all around me as I stand on a knoll. I am suddenly startled by a cactus wren taking flight just a few feet away from my head. Looking in the alarm’s direction, there is a cholla cactus, and in its masses of prickly branches a new looking nest sits.

I make my way to my favorite sitting rock, a place that I call Havarock. I stand and then I sit cross legged, just listening, just watching, just imbibing the fresh air and its effect on my physical being. Do I hear the creek below? I stand, but I can’t be sure.

Another sprinkle begins as I near home from my excursion. I can’t seem to get enough of this.

Walking barefoot on a great slab of granite:

I remove my shoes. The smooth surface of the floor in my home feels very real, very amazing, very wonderful. As I sit down to write this, I hear the rain returning once more. This time, once again barefoot all over, I return to the out of doors. It is a chill to me at first, but soon my interpretation turns to warmth.

The rain has turned to drizzle. I have been slowly, mindfully stepping through each step all over the wet glistening sheets of granite just out my front door, that run up the gentle slope of the hill. The rock is cool, yet the grinding friction of its nature creates a burning warmth into my feet amongst it. Moist, my feet wrap around the uneven contours of the granite, 240 bones and systems of muscle work together as I watch.

The drizzle slowly lessens. The afternoon sun peeks out under a distant cloud and I feel the heat. I find each drop can be arriving anywhere, at any time, randomly upon my drenched body. I raise my arms and hold them out. I doubt that two drops are plinking down at the same time anywhere upon me. They are just as a game of tickle, where one doesn’t know where the perpetrator will poke next. I wait and experience each drop in surprise. There is just sensual delight, a fine walking meditation, a fine standing meditation. The sky is changing, clarity in one direction and the grey mist obscuring the other. Change across the valley is continuous during the monsoon times. A cloud is bursting out near the towering mountains to the east, making a very local downpour, a very large shower head that lumbers very slowly across the distant bajada.

Sitting eyes closed, taking miracles as they present themselves.

I take a break from writing, stepping outside. The grand mountains in the distance are not seen. They are covered by a wall of very dark grey. I shortly ponder whether the thunderstorm will find its way across the valley to me. What is in immediate attention however, is the most wonderful cool breeze across this body. Could it be more perfect, or pleasing? I venture to the granite slab again. I discover that the light little wind has dried the formerly glistening wet rock slab. It is a cool to the touch.

I decide to sit down and just meditate into being in this place. There is thunder, rolling thunder that seems to go on as it quiets and then comes back, increasing its volume, crossing the world the length of that distant mountain range. My eyes are closed; I don’t know where that storm is. I don’t know if it will pass, or is it coming my way. Being only in this moment is very fun. There are heard the sounds of rain drops around me. They are increasing in numbers. None have found their way to me, yet. My joy breaks into an unidentifiable sound, a sort of laugh from deep within, and I am tapped on the shoulder. There is a knock on the very top of my head. And then, somehow one more drop plops down at the top of my stomach. As more arrive, it is so much fun.

Sitting quietly in a rain, the thunder is now, much closer. I resolve to get up, lightening isn’t far behind, or so I’ve been warned. As I climb down onto the patio, my reluctance to leave my perch brings the thought, “Ah, what are the odds, anyway?”

Thunder Storm and the promise:

A tremendous downpour creates patterns like an impressionist painting on the windows as I attempt to interpret what lies on the other side of the glass. I am entertained, my home engulfed by a mass of water. Out the window there is only the immediate and then dark cloud of rain. Puddles are now a general flood. I know streams are flowing around the house. Rolling thunder and flashes crashing, are all so amazing.

The brunt of it dissipates, a very cool breeze replaces it, I inspect the water flow, looking for ways to harvest the water, soaking, yes, soaking it up. Clear puddles are at my ankles as I stand in wonder. Where that range of mountains once stood, there can only be seen a broad band of colored light. Across the immediate ridge, in the valley, there is only rainbow, not high arching, but as if at ground level and then a mile high. “Thank-you, “ I hear myself mumble, “Thank-you.”

My thoughts begin, something about blessings, what could be better than this, being in the moment, amazed, and completely bare amongst it, the complete experience of all, “ Is this what winning a lottery feels like?”, “Are the best things in life free, especially naked?” There is no time for these thoughts to complete, no time to remember in reference, or compare, because this moment is so overwhelming.

Here is a sense of wealth and abundance. Slowly the mountains return. They are huge and magnificent.