I watch
the steady fall of rain outside our sitting room windows, listening to Hildegard
von Bingen and feeling supremely content.
Both windows are lifted open for the entertainment of the cats, there
being no wind to speak of to dash water into the house. I pray the rain is falling just as abundantly—if
not more so—on the fields, which need all the help they can get.
Crocheting
projects litter my desk in various states of completion, but I sit in my
armchair, my new side table at hand, wondering whether to make a pot of
tea. I’ve been indulging in six cups a
day lately: my pot, using two tea bags, makes three cups, and the bags can be
reused to make a second pot if I time it right.
I find the second steeping often tastes better than the first. I bring a little tablespoon measuring cup
along to the sitting room so I don’t have to make the trip into the kitchen for
my French vanilla creamer when I pour a new mug of tea. With the assistance of that mild stimulant, I’ve
been able to accomplish a number of tasks on my computer—never at the speed I’d
prefer, but some progress is better than none.
Long moments pass as I enjoy the
sound of rain and mediate on what more to write, discarding most thoughts—the inevitable,
indomitable weeds; my cats’ continuing tension and partial truce with each
other; my novel- and memoir-writing dilemmas . . . Thunder interrupts my
musings, rumbling with comforting authority.
Katie doesn’t seem to agree with that assessment—she jumps up from under
my petting hand and flees the room. The
rain grows heavier, becoming like an ever-moving, sheer white veil over objects
in the distance. I see that our drain
pipe near the front steps is clogged; water spills over the top of the gutter rather
than pouring out below—one of the many little repairs we’re finding our new
house needs.
We have
a busy weekend with family before us, but for once in a long while, we don’t
have to prepare the Sunday School lesson.
Even the church choir music has already been printed and compiled to be
given to the pianists Sunday so they may begin practicing for the succeeding
week’s first practice. Thus I find my
only obligations are those I’ve imposed on myself—or that God leads me toward—and
that is a very lovely feeling, indeed! I
would that everyone gave themselves the luxury of such an enjoyable stay-cation
each year. Alas that it’s not always
possible, but forgive me if I allow myself to enjoy this whimsical, wonderful,
watery day.
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