This morning, I woke around 5:30 a.m. and had intended to pop out of bed, make coffee and breakfast, and get to the gym bright and early. I need to get back into that routine of exercising before I do much of anything else–with the occasional exception of writing, my writing, not work writing. Exercise makes such a difference in my mood: the natural Prozac, clearing out my brain of sadness, fears, old resentments.
But this morning, I woke when it was still dark. The window was open so the air in the bedroom was chilly. But I was warm and cozy under my comforter and extra blanket.
And I could hear the rain, from the storm moving through the Bay Area today. I just wanted to lie in bed, all warm, and listen to the rain. Listen to it forever. A kind of music, with its own rhythm, the steady fall of drops blending into one murmur. A sound that reminds me of so many other times in my life, sitting beside a mountain creek. Or when when I was a child, and I liked to wake up early on stormy mornings and listen to the rain.
There is one exception to this murmur: A drip-drip-drip, from a small stream that had probably found its way out of the roof gutter and onto the front porch outside the bedroom window. It sounds so close, almost like it’s inside.
I lie here, as I did as a child, and think about the bad things and the good, the things to dread, the things to look forward to. In this interior darkness with the rain outside, I feel more still than I can ever feel at any other time of my day.
I’ve heard that truths about life can emerge from such stillness. That’s why people pray. That’s why people meditate. For stillness. To find truth.
What truths emerged this morning? I’m not sure. They are there, I’m sure, simmering just below, and I hope soon they will reveal themselves.
It’s not dark anymore outside. I can see the red camellias on the bush outside the bedroom window, and I can see the crystal-like drops hanging from the leaves and petals. I can see the street, slick with rain. I can hear my son waking up in the room next door. He’s made his way off his bed and is lying by the heat vent, basking in warm air.He must be reading. His own version of a quiet rainy morning.
I can hear the sound of the garbage truck making it’s way up the street.
Time to get up and get on with this day. Thank you–whoever creates such moments–for this hour in the dark, listening to the rain.
One thought on “A Most Beautiful Morning”
You are a beautiful writer. Methinks you have a few books in you, striving to get out. I look forward to each new blog entry.