in the afterwards
Rain has been forecast. I say it like a secret, like I'm whispering about having seen a smile between two people who weren't supposed to like each other. February rain. It is always a treasure.
The sky softens, preparing to receive it. There is less contrast - all that fierce white going a little grey; trees and rooftops gentling into a paler scape. And the earth begins to open its pores, its flowers. Everything feels like the world is anticipating the lovely, langorous afterwards, when it will be full again.
When I think about my best self, it is so often the person I am afterwards. Gentled, perhaps a little battered, my eyes gone heavier and my heart plumped with knowing. You know, after the bread and wine, after the storm. Lately I've been trying to gather strength for the dark possibilities that lie ahead - maybe war, maybe another global financial depression, certainly droughts and hurricanes, food shortages, rising prices - but I find that strength generally isn't helpful to me. I am wiser, calmer, more thoughtful, when I soften myself, quieten my voice, and go deep into the feeling that is like the feeling before midsummer rain - the understanding that nothing matters if you haven't got enough nourishment, body or soul.
I wish it would rain for everyone. I wish bread and wine for the world.