The rain fell steadily on our house this morning. I love being alone, in the quiet, when it is raining outside. Especially, when I am on the inside, and I am dry and warm. Listening.
It is a steady stillness, but at the same exact moment, a soothing serenade. I can sit for a long time, and give that rain my full attention. My awareness.
The song varies, just as if it were played in a Concert Hall. Sometimes the rain gets soft, and plucky, like easy little whispers from the violins’ and piccolos. Other times, it finds a steady rhythm. There’s barely a beat. It is more of a movement. A motion. A glide. Occasionally, the entire Orchestra booms forward, with the crashes of cymbals, and the thumping of drums. But no matter its tempo, it remains a beautiful song of nature.
Growing up on East Bruce Avenue, was a good thing for me. I have a lot of fond memories of that place. One Saturday afternoon, a Summer Storm blew in. I had been outside playing, and my Dad was doing some sort of work our house. He had been up on a ladder. We stopped what we were doing and took refuge on our front porch. There were flimsy aluminum lawn chairs on that porch. Dad and I both took a seat, and watched the storm. And then it turned into a steady rain. I don’t remember us talking much. About anything. We just sat there together, and watched. Just the two of us. We saw the darkness which had consumed the sky, and waters which were rushing by in the gutters of the street. An occasional splash of lightning and clap of thunder. A little branch floating by on the road.
When the rains began to ease, my Dad went inside. A few moments later, he came out and produced a plate filled with Braunschweiger on crackers. We sat and ate. And when the rain stopped, we went back to what we were doing. Me playing. Dad, working.
It is one of the best memories of my life.
A cherished glimpse of the past.
There is much to be said about living in the now. The here. The now. The present. But it all seems to flow, I think. The past, the present, the future. One to the next. Sometimes, in our minds, this goes forward. And sometimes it goes back.
When we consider the past, we are actually, thoughtfully, going there to the past, but in this moment. That little bit of our lives are simultaneously happening right now.
And in the same way, if we are projecting, or planning in the future, we are actually going to that future possibility. We are having that assumed future happen to us now.
Both are okay, I think.
This morning, I liked sitting on that porch with my Dad. In the rain.
A memory I am glad we made together. One I do not want to forget. I am thankful to have that past.
“The past is never where you think you left it.”
― Katherine Anne Porter
“The past beats inside me like a second heart.”
― John Banville, The Sea
“I have realized that the past and future are real illusions, that they exist in the present, which is what there is and all there is.”
― Alan W. Watts