Instead of Doing Work, I am Watching the Rain

Do you ever see the better part of yourself in the passing of a storm? Well, for me there are times when I allow myself to look past my failings and love the world without question. I love the rumpled clouds, the heavy sheets of rain, the trees bent under the strain of a strong Midwestern wind. I love the dark water puddling in the gutters outside my kitchen, the way the grass is bowed low by thick drops, and a blue sky that is graying toward the set of evening. Beyond the lifted sash of window, I see all that I cannot give to myself and others, spilt onto the world in such exuberance and excess that I feel guilty for my selfish reservations and cynicism.

These are the moments when I realize that generosity and grace, forgiveness and acceptance, play out daily in the spectacle between sky and street, heedless of audience or author, and that all I need do is take up what is cast off so willingly and unrequested. If I could raise a toast then I would raise it to the sky: For what was drained is full, for what was wanting is now found. But . . . what stays when all is movement?