This morning had a strange waking. I woke up nearly an hour before my alarm (I have been habitually waking up strange amounts of time before my alarm on little sleep, lately) and heard rumbling outside. Soon I also perceived the sound of heavy rain and realised that it was thunder and lightening and rain I was hearing. And as much as thunder makes me uneasy, there was a strange consolation in the heavy bars of rain. I did not want to go out in it, but would rather have stayed in, listening to the rain and looking out at it. When I woke again after drifting back to sleep, the rain had stopped. By the time I got to school it was as though there never were a rain. And this saddened me inside.
One thing I have seen in myself is a love of water. Water is something that moves my soul, that comforts and consoles it, that heals and soothes. Music that has water in it often leaves a near physical impression on me, drawing me in. Waters draw up images of the ocean, rivers and creeks, lakes, and the rain -- dropping into weightlessness and drifting forever in a certain bliss of comfort, the soul and heart and body and mind being washed in the seas. There is the sensation of not stopping the rain, nor blocking its flow, but of the waters passing through me, flowing through me, with me as a conduit for it, a channel it may pass through on its journey. And I feel it washing myself with itself into the greater waters, joining me to it and joining me to creation, the living and beating life and heart and being of creation.
