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“Let me say this before rain becomes a utility that they can plan and distribute for money. By “they” I mean the people who cannot understand that rain is a festival, who do not appreciate its gratuity, who think that what has no price has no value, that what cannot be sold is not real, so that the only way to make something actual is to place it on the market. The time will come when they will sell you even your rain. At the moment it is still free, and I am in it. I celebrate its gratuity and its meaninglessness.
The rain I am in is not like the rain of cities. It fills the woods with an immense and confused sound. It covers the flat roof of the cabin and porch with insistent and controlled rhythms. And I listen, because it reminds me again and again that the whole world runs by rhythms I have not yet learned to recognize, rhythms that are not those of the engineer.
I came up here from the monastery last night, sloshing through the cornfield, said Vespers, and put some oatmeal on the Coleman stove for supper. It boiled over while I was listening to the rain and toasting a piece of bread at the log fire. The night became very dark. The rain surrounded the whole cabin with its enormous virginal myth, a whole world of meaning, of secrecy, of silence, of rumor. Think of it: all that speech pouring down, selling nothing, judging nobody, drenching the thick mulch of dead leaves, soaking the trees, filling the gullies and crannies of the wood with water, washing out the places where men have stripped the hillside! What a thing it is to sit absolutely alone, in the forest, at night, cherished by this wonderful, unintelligible, perfectly innocent speech, the most comforting speech in the world, the talk that rain makes by itself all over the ridges, and the talk of the watercourses everywhere in the hollows!
Nobody started it, nobody is going to stop it. It will talk as long as it wants, this rain. As long as it talks I am going to listen.” – Thomas Merton
When I read this, I stopped in my tracks anxiously awaiting the next utterance. My daughter’s clingy-ness didn’t bother me. My son’s beckoning headed to his own accord. If only for about 2 minutes, I could hear the rain fall and my soul tickled knowing some stranger could feel my cause. Re-reading the passage reminded me how even more appreciative I am of rain as I experienced for the first time being without water in my home because of a drought. Rain water is a life line.
I wanted to share this passage instantly but then my insecurities kicked in…who would listen or care, anyone who took the time to read already sees this beauty, why bother? Well, today is April 22nd, at least in the Southern hemisphere. Even if no one reads this, I am pleased that I got captured by another great writer and learned of another extraordinary soul.
I find the line “Little boys don’t liked to be chewed” relevent to our society and raising boys. I consider myself a feminist for boy’s emotional rights which is not mutually exclusive to human feelings. I never dreamt I’d be on this path. I came to a point where I could no longer blame the boys who harassed and molested me or the men who antagonized and chastised me. I was bred to submit, to please, and be objectified; but what of my counterpart? I do not condone adultery or domestic violence. These acts sicken every cell in my body yet I can now see how they occur. What is a man to do when you take away his most advanced and intuitive tool? Do not cry! Man up! Fight! Don’t be afraid!
I recently heard Sir Ken Robinson joke, “If a man says something in a forest where no women are around, is he still wrong?”
On September 19th, 2007, I gave birth to a beautiful girl named Anais. She had ten fingers, ten toes, and a delicate face. The doctor emphatically said “she’s perfect,” yet she was dead…
.
I used to have a visceral reaction when I heard the word ‘perfect.’ I would feel angry and focused on what I had lost trying to live to those expectations for most my life. When I heard the doctor describe Anais as ‘perfect,’ I initially felt offended and thought she’d be perfect if she was alive. My reaction was normal under the circumstances (after 20+ hours of labor and three failed pregnancies) but now I can see that she is perfect…In order to achieve this positive perspective, I had to give myself permission and space to: 1) express and process through all my negative feelings, 2) be validated for my loss and 3) redefine perfection and all its components.
Merriam-Webster defines perfect as a: being entirely without fault or defect, b: satisfying all requirements, c: corresponding to an ideal standard or abstract concept.
How could one be human and perfect at the same time?
What we perceive as faults, requirements, or the ideal depends greatly on context. Some faults are strengths in different situations. When you do not meet all the requirements for one position, you may very well open the door to a better one. There are many different paths to reach the same endpoint.
Perfection has evolved to mean for me when my behaviors, thoughts, and feelings are harmonious and encourages me on the path that most honors my authentic self as well as evokes deep connections with others. Anais and all children guide me on this perfect path. Embracing loss, chaos, and negativity is perfection and a huge leap to peace.
Namaste´
“I honor the place within you where the entire Universe resides; I honor the place within you of love, of light, of truth, of peace; I honor the place within you, where, when you are in that place in you, and I am in that place in me, there is only one of us.” ~Ghandi
My words insignificant to the damage of our cells.
I want to do more, but have nothing more to give.
Our ego too sensitive;
A hermit, I live.
Hypocrisy comes knocking at my door…
What the HELL are you doing that for!?!
Will someone please let me in?
rAmbLingsFrOmPEACEmaker 