Deep forests tower over gnarled terrain, the groundcover of moss and ferns subject to the shade provided by massive old growth Ponderosa pine and Doug fir; whatever rain is allowed to penetrate whittled down to mist, fog, wisps of cloud. Something about rain speaks wordlessly of these things, speaks deep to the writer within and I come crawling out of my shell to behold it. I soak it in; soak up the mists of potential that fall from bough to bough, filtered fresh and delivered directly to the place of my being.
A trailhead stands protected by a gateway of brambles that bar the way in. Still, the light behind the barrier beckons me the writer come. Be. It’s a race not bowed or cowed to the swift; rather joined to its antithesis in mutual reality, conjoined in covenanted appetites for activity that benefits the both, the whole.
Rains wildly tossed by winds wash treetops with wave upon wave, a flood rinsing out branches and falling, running, splashing, dripping down to the ground where it becomes rivulets that twist and wend, gathering the wet, collecting the dust, washing away, growing, trickling, splashing, running, falling, becoming a flood, washing into rivers, to the wildly tossed sea.
I the writer see the cycles and understand awe; at least in part. Further understanding becomes wisdom as I part the veil to the path of participation and see the sun breaking in, setting alight millions of drops in the whole pantheon of color, these not gods but witness to One who Is, He who made the whole with Open Hand that remains extended to I; the participant.
Rain washes down from the atmosphere to where I dwell, the writer awakened and entranced and spellbound by its action that drives toward revelation. The pen and the page, figures born upon it that speak in echoes of Truth, pointing, participating.
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