When it’s raining, it’s not raining too—everything’s like that.
I had to take the dog out for a walk this morning. It’s a cold day with colder rain. It’s supposed to rain until sometime tomorrow. The rivers are gonna rise, streams are gonna jump their banks, and the sidewalk in front of my house is gonna become a temporary reservoir full of cool, brown water.
The dog hops over the miniature lake when I take her out—smart pup.
But while all of that’s happening, it also isn’t. For one thing, it isn’t raining all over the world, and we should really keep the bigger picture on our minds at all times. That’s tough since we’re naturally programmed to be self-centered fuckheads, but it gives us a clearer picture of things.
For another thing, it isn’t even raining everywhere here. There’s always space between the drops. We don’t usually account for that space when we think of rain.
So what does that mean? We could use it as a metaphor for some mind-tickling philosophy or another, but I’m trying to cut back on that sorta thing. I wanna take a different approach. Its meaning is its feeling. We don’t think our way through an unfamiliar dark room—we feel our way through it.
How do you feel about walking between the raindrops? Feel the feeling, embody the feeling and bring it into the activity. Through feeling we can edge toward our source.