I think I’ve found a kindred spirit. There’s little that I like as much as to go outside and just “be” in a warm Summer rain. Sometimes, my fox and some of the birds come out too, but even all alone, I love to celebrate the rain. Now that I’m an old woman who doesn’t care what anyone thinks and who has her own, secluded backyard, I do it every chance that I get. It’s such an “ordinary miracle.”
California, sadly, has been experiencing a serious drought. Sylvia writes beautifully about some welcome rain:
I went walking in Point Reyes, along the Muddy Hollow trail, to visit with the red alders, and the new nettles—I had feared there would be none!—and a special grove of alders that grow close and pale, where the tule elk pass, rubbing their antlers on the bark, where the bobcat moves, out of sight of human trails, coming down from the scrubby hills where she hunts the voles, the gophers, the small birds, like this darling fox-sparrow above, of whom I’ve been seeing much recently—it is a subspecies known as the Sooty Fox Sparrow that winters in the Bay Area from farther north, and what a sweet gift it is to get to meet them! (For beautiful photos of this bird, see here. I can’t seem to quite get over the sweetness of those speckles.) Once, last winter, a wildlife camera (which I helped set up with Felidae and a tracking group called Catscapes, since we tracked bobcats and cougars) near this special grove of alders caught a shot of a lone mountain lion, passing gracefully at dawn. This is a special place, a place of old magic. When I visited it last, it was so brown and gray and dead I felt tight and a little sick in my stomach, a panic beginning to rise in the back of my throat at the hot sky, only blue, empty of clouds, desert dry. But after even two days of scattered rain—so little, in fact, that I heard people joking that the poor clouds were trying hard, but they’d quite forgotten what it meant, to rain— the land began to move, like my own spirit did, and throw its whole heart up toward that water.
You should go read the whole thing.
So there we are, at different times and in different places, but all engaged in the same act of worship, the same ritual of the Goddess — Kayden, Sylvia, and me. We shan’t be gone long, you come too.