newstalk

Walk in the rain.

If, during a storm, you turn off the computer and all the lights, you’ll barely notice when the power goes out. If you have electric lights outside, say, in the parking lot, these will go out, and the world will seem more at peace with itself. That’s all.

If, during a storm, you go for a walk, take my advice: keep the lower half minimal—sandals and swim trunks. On the torso, wear several layers of medium-weight polyester or wool—no cotton. On top of that, your favorite raingear—I prefer a breathable Goretex-esque shell. Top it off with an acrylic stocking cap and hood, or if you really want to go for style, an oilskin hat will do the trick nicely. Do not bring an umbrella—that is only avoiding the issue.

When walking, stay away from open fields and tall trees. Do not avoid puddles less than 1-inch deep. If you stop, seek shelter where the pavement or concrete is less wet, or even dry. Find a good, dry corner to huddle in and watch the heaviest periods of rain. Get moving again before your legs fall asleep, or before you begin to feel chill. Make stops inside buildings brief, or avoid them altogether. The blood must flow; the rain must fall; you must keep moving in order to stay alive.

Rain may make you want to sing, or dance, or shout, or run full tilt and jump, lay full out splashing into the mud. Rain makes me want to write. Storms make me want to call down fire upon this rain-soaked sacrifice, up here on the mountain—a single strand of fire holding within it every surface of every sun, every candle ever burned, every Polaroid ever snapped—a conduit to the Godhead Himself, or at least His image here standing, arms lifted up to the sky as the rain pours down, an anarchy of every liberation, every mercy, every blaze of fire echoed in the mind’s eye and scattered, refracted across the glowing black sky.

The storm puts all things in perspective: the grand epic cycle which never needed a pen, which only needed oceans and clouds and the all the currents and winds and butterflies flapping their wings in-between. The storm gives all, holding nothing back for tomorrow or next month. And giving all, the storm is larger than all the pasts and futures that my desert mind can ever conjure. There can be no if or when in the storm— only rain and wind, thunder and lightning, without whispering cause or shattering effect. This is as it must be, for far beyond the storm and far above, and deep within the storm there is a Hand guiding, directing, conducting the storm. When that Hand removes, the storm ceases, and there is peace everywhere but within the hearts of men, who always see that Hand work without truly seeing, who always hear the soft rustle of that Hand without truly hearing, and who always know with cold and gripping fear that someday that Hand will remove, always without truly understanding.

This is why I must believe: because the storm believes.

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