I’m looking past the bouquet of dying, drying daffodils to the mossy pond, a flat horizontal stripe of green showing through vertical stripes of oaks and Spanish moss. Colors are muted greens, greys, and beige. The Carolina wrens call. A little brown bird flits into the bush. The usual perky cardinal has not appeared, although for a while I mistook the red end of the garden hose for an unusually still bird. The sky is that grey-white that presages possible rain.
On days like these, I don’t want to do much of anything. It’s not depression, but it’s not far from it. So, I sit at the window, watching and listening and trying not to think about plans or projects. Isn’t that what Zen is about?
I used to lie in bed, listening to the drumming of rain on the roof, looking out through the wall of windows into the green cave of light and leaves. This was in the milk barn on Taylors Ferry Rd. I loved the excuse that rain gave me to read and listen. I still have that feeling about rain. If it’s sunny, I feel like I need to be out and about. At the very least, I need to get out of my jammies. But a rainy day gives me permission to be still and a little sad.
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