My day began and ended with rain. It seems like it always should. Water is change. It is the veil between was and will be, here and the otherworld. We are born through it, King Arthur sailed it to Avalon, Jesus made it into his blood like wine, Ceridwen kept it in a cauldron of transfiguration and poetic inspiration, the Snake-Goddess heals us through her underworld springs. When it rains I have to believe in the divine, because nothing so mythic, so powerful for body and spirit, could be a merely accidental sticking-together of atoms.
Cicadas are singing their long song; I wonder, what myths might they have about the transition into light, and do they sing these as they call for a mate? Do they sing the sun and the rain, or in memory of the buried dark? Do they think of our world as an outer world into which they have emerged, or an inner one into which they have delved? Have you ever noticed that, when you start asking questions, and reaching for a strange sympathy for other life forms, your own perception of the world becomes more magical?