I hear it outside of my window. I jump up and look to be sure of the familiar sound.” Plop, plop,” I haven’t heard this sound in a long time.
These are big rain drops. The patio has polka dots bigger than silver dollars. It’s the warm and tropical kind, that comes during this season up from the Gulf of Mexico. I’m excited. I step outside just to be sure, to find out if this is that wonderful warm summer stuff…that I love to dance in.
The plop sound on my naked body is accompanied by a sting like a soft pellet. The first has me alarmed, then each successive dollop becomes a sensual message, a delight to awaken me all over.
I climb up onto the granite slab just out my doorway. The polka dots have now melded together into a sheen. The sun has it glowing like a layer of wax, bringing distinction to the rock around me.
There had been a dusting during the last few days. A fine powder had been deposited on every surface. This quickly has become a mud, a transparent slippery slime. I become careful. My bare feet must slowly grip the surface with its contours and be assured with every step.
I reach a level spot, a bit higher, where I can look out at the vista of the valley to the west. Standing, taking it all in, each drop resonates with my being. Dozens of miles away, Kit Peak stands with its observatories in the sun.
There is noise coming from down the driveway, or next door. I can see that the rain is thicker over there.
It slowly approaches, very slowly. I watch as step by step, tree by tree, the air becomes thick with water droplets.
It hits! What I feel is multiplied; a greater frenzy of elements is presented. Drops hit into my eyes and it stings. Soon oil from the hot day seeps, washing down into the eyelids and the delicate bare eyeballs. I turn my back.
The rock has gone from sunshine hot to rainy cool. Instead of a desert, I feel it as tropical, as a Caribbean beach. The smell is clean.
I walk across the slippery slab feeling each frequent change in the rock surface as my feet bend to its will.
I walk back into the house. The cool air tells me just how wet I am all over. My wet feet slosh across the smooth surface of my floor. I grab my trusty cap. The brim should protect my eyes. I slip on a pair of quick flip flops and soon I’m outside walking into the desert.
The rain ebbs to a more gentle pace. I am compelled. I begin stepping out on the trail moment by moment. I’ll find out how far my walk is, when I get there.
All is wet. Red ants scurry about in chaos, undeterred. I’m surprised. I’d assume that they would safeguard to keep from being washed away, or crushed by a monumental raindrop.
The sun is out. Light is shining through a curtain of rain, glistening. There is that special light about me, the florescence kind of the light, as if after a passing rain. It’s the kind of light that accompanies rainbows.
About me, the prickly pears are ripe for picking. They have been waiting for the monsoon. Their tunas are ready, sweet and bulbous. Today, at this moment, the light transforms them.
They are of gorgeous pastels, as if someone had painted them in his own imagination, but this is God’s art work. I have never seen this.
I make my way in the moment. Ebb turns back into flow, again.
I smell the wet coat of a deer. It is very close. It’s in a large bush, an island of life. Usually, one will spook and burst out in getaway. Not in this rain. Perhaps the deer feel safer when it rains, perhaps I am down wind and the rain drops have drowned out my noise.
I look up and over the ridge. A fat chunk of rainbow emanates up from the valley as the thunder rolls and rolls and rolls. For an hour and a half thunder continues and I never see lightning. It is constant, like a jet whirling through the air, just above these hills
I stand naked in the warm rain, staring towards the sun. I open my arms, stretching them out wide and take it all in. I feel rewashed, reframed, renewed.
Like the beliefs say, the solstice may have brought disappointment, the days grow shorter toward the darkness, but today, I’m feeling a renewal. Every plant and animal feels as I do. I am standing joyous to be a part of.
The blessing of monsoon rains will bring the return of abundance. It is a second Spring. We must always have faith in that. This season is a rebirth, as always.
The ground becomes soggy as time passes. It sucks up moister thirstily. The intensity begins to create standing water and then puddles begin to flow slowly, down the channels of last Spring’s watering.
I am alive with reborn faith. I’ve surrendered to what is, to fate that will benevolently, lovingly, take care of me. There is drought and there is monsoon, both a cycle of life.
Back at home, my cap is soaked, but my head is warm. Water drips off of its brim to gather with the puddle on my window sill. I have left a window open. I clear away the standing water on my sill.
It gets darker and a hard rain manifests, pouring sideways. I am safely inside. Timing is perfect, life is perfect, I am blessed
Oh, the joy of it, to stand naked in these elements and be so assured, so cared for, so like a child.
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