I love to listen to the sound of the rain. the soft pattering reminds me of the smell of a up of hot chai or the feeling of an old book in my hands. I like to think while listening to the raindrops fall like thousands of quiet philosophers somersaulting through the air and dancing off the roof. I wish I was writing this while listening to precipitations to help my predications and participations in the proliferations of thought. Is rain not magical? Traditionally fantastic?
Sitting in the rain clears away the muck of the mind like mud off a car The quiet deluge washes off the noisy routine that clouds so much of my skies. What is the magic of the rain?
I like to think that it goes back to a woman, a quiet woman who would go through the forests, mountains, plains, rivers, lakes, oceans, and skies in search of a waterfall. I like to think her name was Rayne. She was a somber, contemplative beauty. She spoke little, talked less, but said more than a generation of philosophers and skeptics. The waterfall, she thought, would understand her. She had heard of a waterfall from her grandmother, a woman who talked slightly more and said slightly less than our quiet friend.
I like to think that Rayne felt the waterfall would understand her. The waterfall would talk constantly, say nothing, but still mean more than generations of theologians and professors. Her grandmother had told her that the waterfall was a river of cascading thought, a dynamo of running intellect, a flow of unspeakably simple beauty.
So Rayne sought for the waterfall. She looked in verdant pastures and forests, but only found babbling books and chortling streams. She looked in the stoic mountains and canyons, but only found raging and roaring rivers. She looked in the oceans, but only found the obstinately silent sea. In her melancholy of the loss of a thing she never had, she crawled into a cavern, committing herself to lonely commiseration. But as she cried, she heard a new sound. A dignified drip, a conversational and contemplative call from deep within the cave. So she breathed in her sadness and crawled deeper.
She felt the drip before she saw it. A spray of soft mist caressed her face as she stood, her eyes adjusting to the heartwarming gloom. There was a soft muttering in the chamber. Then she saw it, tumbling, rolling, and falling The cascade. The beauty, power, thought and wisdom of the towering fall overwhelmed her. She knew it was too awe-inspiring to be kept to herself.
So she brought word of it to those who spoke but said little. But, because they spoke so much, they couldn’t hear other people saying things.
Everywhere she went, Rayne’s discovery was talked over. Eventually, Rayne moved on, but she was determined for the world to hear the music of the saying, rather than the talking. So it rained. The rain flooded the minds of the talkers, many of whom hated the rain. Its quiet proclamation made them uncomfortable, and still does to this day. But there are still a few who live like Rayne, and these few live for the conversation brought by the rain.