Persistent rain means that after a brief visit to the oak a campervan morning from inside the van is on the cards. The brief snatch of birdsong is bright, blackbird, robins, starlings the usual host of morning companions, the cloud a solid bank of white, a cool damp freshness in the air, but the rain means a retreat to the van is inevitable. So it’s a quick cast about and then a dance through puddles and rain soaked earth and path. The rain trickles down windows, taps on skylights and roof. The extraneous sounds of nature replaced by rain and a sense of sitting inside a drum. It is gentle enough to soak you, but also to lull you into a sense of the hypnotic. The drummer part of my brain looks for patterns, a rhythm or something to give it shape, before releasing it and letting it be. The curse of the rhythmatist. In his series of essays on the four elements, John O’Donohue writes of the tenderness of rain, it “ Never falls awkwardly or chaotically. It falls always with exquisite dignity of structure and purpose”. This morning it falls all around me colouring my thoughts and my attention, dragging me away to watch its journey or listen to it sounds. Concentration seems a little more difficult this self care Sunday. The rain means plans cancelled and time to be still and watch and listen. Check in with the self and absorb the experience around me. Some sorting and preparation for my trip north and Scotland beckons so some small part of the day will be devoted to that. A beautiful conversation yesterday sits with me around the passing of another friend the impact of that and the impermanence of life. The author and philosopher Rabindranath Tagore wrote :
“ The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough “.
There is a sense of urgency to make the best of time, each moment, each encounter, each experience, to dive into the box of crayons so to speak. It’s a beautiful morning and time for the day to begin. Do something for yourself today, open your box of crayons. Lovely days people.
“ Deep inside, we are all artists who can't find the crayons that were given to us in playschool.” Neeraj Agnihotri.
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