The rain is a pattern. A beat. It drums endlessly, shuffling from leaf to leaf, from branch to branch until, finally, it hits the ground. It moves, and it shifts and it desperately reaches for something solid to land on.
The ground soaks it in, this melancholy soundtrack.
Eats it up. Adores it.
And who could blame it?
How could you not love something that falls so far for you? That reaches down from the heavens, just to crash into the ground below? Just to have a small, tiny chance to shower you?
The rain is cold, and wet, and sometimes its unwanted.
But it’s beautiful.
In the wilderness, it’s a love song. One that I can’t help but appreciate. That I can’t help but sing along to.
Thirty years in the wilderness, and still.
I find it beautiful.
I find myself.
In this mist, and under these branches, and in this downpour, I find myself.
I find my way. Continue reading “What I Learned From The Wilderness”