I sit by an open window in the dark with the rain, waiting for a picture of a sound, a spark. But the rain is just a sheet of paper crumbling over and over again, not an ocean tide or a fire crackling in a pit.
Dreams of being late for work, wandering around a foreign town looking for my car, no map. Worrying I’ll have to contact my boss, will miss time at work.
I push myself out of bed and say Write, and between the time I dress and come downstairs, I fumble for a door, throw it open here, and entertain the sound of the rain:
It is the same it’s always been, and always will. It collects by the window there and off each leaf, in the distance. It’s a comforting sound of renewal and cleansing, tells me it’s time to stay inside.
Things become harder than they need to when you let your mind get in the way. That’s why my Yoga teacher has us focus on our breath, and make the sound of it in the back of our throats, to get our brain to listen to that, and stop listening to itself.