Rain and Rainbows by B. Garth Steinhagen
WHERE I LIVE, it rains many, many days. Not just downpours but a misty haze of blue, a sky in the clouds. To others, perhaps this appears annoying, upturned, with drips of solemn solitude, vanished in bluish whiteness. Others are always exclaiming, "A change in the weather would do some good". But where would rain go? Besides to exchange gold goblets on our imagination for color, and not to have rain that dampens us to drip from every limb, that would part our beautiful sky's with only sunshine.
And so I say, "let's swallow to my world being rain and rainbows".
The spheres of clearness, a christening rain, flows a transparent touch on our skin, one that purifies, moistens, and softens, to cleanse everyday harshness, by the pitter patter of marbles, a tone upon us. It rolls around within us, swirling to our sound a foray of inimitable percussion. This precipitation, a reconciliation to be recognized, perspires often to life's thunder, a crackle of nature's secrets, becoming a strike of light. A light refracted showing a beautiful rainbow. Our rainbows the multitude of reds to violets tends to live opposite of a false hope, a blindly yellow sun on ourselves, like lightings jagged bolts that we tend to avoid. And because of this it draws us from a cloud to the earth where we belong, and foregoes the arch to heavens of nature.
"Liquid dots of sparkle threads, weave our life through common bread."
Rain, water of nourishment that resides in us, is discovered huddled under woven umbrellas, named sky, observed by way of clouds, which appear to collect into absorbing cotton tissues tossing throughout the air. Sometimes it is noticed by alteration of our earth, a joyous spirited river raft ride with others. Often times, we just stare outwardly through a dampen window frame to the apparent horizon, as its moist fingers touch our panes. In any event, in our most fragileness of days, the vapor clears leaving us exposed, cool, naked. And within this depth, a warm gust blows to open the spigot to shower a newday upon us. This circular atmosphere, a mammoth twister with a calm face, appears with a gentle smile of surrender, just residing in our air and through optical reflection of our light, we awaken a spectrum of light to our uniqueness, a perceptional truth of a new spiral of rainbows tapping our glass. We believe it's just a breeze of others, but this mourning, a torching of our heart from a certain degree eventually breaks from the wind, circles colors, which reside in the crystalline curve opposite to our flickering sunset. And in the finale, you will notice it will just be you with this view, stripped in front of your mourning mirror, not with I, nor God, but with a rainbow, yourself.
Cheering and celebrating is what we should be, for I would rather die with desire than deaden life with despair. Let's begin to dance, expounding images of "singing in the rain" to embrace the truth in us dispelling the actor, a simile of Gene Kelly. This enables us to splash and kick the heights of our desire, the true step off of the curb, to water everything touchable. By this action we give permission to ourselves, to connect our voice, forgoing any other, like B.J. Thomas, welcoming "rain drops to keep falling on our head", displaying to the world in drought, our melody is played with plenty of water. We must let the world see us drenched, as we listen to the rain song on our rooftops, by this, we are the earth's "Poets", the revelation of existence, the rainbow, embodied in all colors of our savior wishes. For, haven't we realized the sweet character of this water, it's deliciously sweet almost savior flavor.
As days come to an end so does rain. It folds itself up like a tulip, at rest in an eternal garden of replenishment for everlasting paradise. For rain idles, rewrites a new formation of an expressive cloud, soft, but awake in reshaped thought, a thought of love, paused, to soar above the lands of necessity, a source of shadow upon desire. It floats around us in surround beauty, the wheat in the golden fields, the snow upon our capped mountains, in the warm note to a friend, in our hand to wash an infant's back, in the redness of a strawberry, in the chimes of our bell, this texture of bricks in our homes reds the light that changes to green, creates tears of joy at our events rooted from the oak of us, a telling text from our phone, ready to bloom to express love to all eyes by the open dam that holds worldly gifts within us. Though for the most part, it slumbers, like us with closed doors, in the soil of a bed of roses.
And then after several concerts, at one particular recital in life, a violin concerto, when the orange sun glistens in daybreak to our eyes with breathless warmth touching us, rain opens itself up, blooms like a tulip, a cool slow kiss upon our lips with such moisture, a waterfall tumbles to our body for us to listen within the thirstiest of our days. It brightens us. For in aloneness, our eye's wash to open to a new day, to see the droplets reshape, a reflection in the dark puddles, misting the water for the sun in our life. And at that moment, we swivel and notice the rainbow, the untangled wave, refraction layered to form unity of the illusion from a new degree of perception. Joy apparent in the air with its togetherness of love rains the place of purpose to all things, to all understanding.
For this to be for me, I will let rain downpour upon myself. This is the greatest fulfillment. As rain current scurries about filling our reservoirs, carving new paths, exploring love and beauty, it awakens me to be a source of my spirit. I shift from one place to another, shaping to broaden new rivers, to soften and carve stones of a babbling brook of nature's beauty, one that will strengthen me from the source of heaven. For I have been in the sun, burned and aged over time with the most drought stricken individuals. This scorching of time is the weather of a spirit, the authentic me, being chased around the sphere in tremulous anxiety, a resistance to the heavens, the stream of achievement, a drought of moisture lessoning upon life. For truth must not be told bluntly but with a slant, a slow enticement or it will surely be darkened in blindness. And because of that, I shall listen and venture out with the breeze of new desires and the light of the sun and music of the wind, sprinkle the air with mist, listen to the songbird drip a joyous melody, and wet quenching dew upon my lips, the freshness of a sip of a loafing rebirth. A slow enfold of necessity, a mass of water in the sky within my desire.
I at times, have wondered about that tulip, its desire and fulfillment and what it all means, the rain and the rainbow. Why it places in my eye such beauty. And why others see the leaves differently and why they fall away from me. It colored me in days, to stroll with nature, to brush the green grass, to pause me to lay on my back in nature's hands, gazing at the sky to the point of grass growing over me.
Watching white puffs float reflection of white caps on my sea, the chasing clouds, faces so fresh and new, lowered my place, my mind into deeper thought. I was separate from the clouds but with them, an enjoyment of different shapes, joining and separating, to connect my eye. I was on earth but my sky was green and so real, I was suspended high, lost in heavenly cloud of knowledge. Down below were curves of a stream, a patch of olive color bristling up to me, a sparrow so close, so free, moving me, moving my geography, the air breezed my body, so light, so engorged with a perfume of nature, of direction. The distance seemed unimportant, the connection unbreakable. My eyes were closed but the image of the cloud was changing as though they were open, permitting me to watch and communicate. I shared and it shared a need for life and me, and together we shared like a cloud, the rain needing the rainbow, and I, my purpose.
And then deep within my closed eyes, a droplet fell on my cheek, a tear droplet. Water, the water in the reservoir that rests, body, becomes vapor, spirit, and rises and comes' together, heaven, returns to an airy cloud, god. And that cloud, god, floats above the field I lay in and everyone's valley. It moves that way until it meets the cool breeze, then falls, rains, weeping, forgiveness of our sins, upon our cheek, upon our fields, upon our body, and joins with the brooks and rivers to touch another harden clay and return to the reservoir, its home.
And so I say, "the life of a cloud is parting and meeting, like rain and rainbows and …."