Last night there was a rain, and it
was lovely to lie awake and listen to its rhythm on the roof. A rare rain,
living in a desert as I do, or near-desert as the clean-shavers of science would say. How reassuring was that roof-rhythm, neither exact nor arbitrary, but
measured with the random vibrancy of Nature, connecting with the rhythms of the
self – the beating of the heart, the bloodflow tides, the pulse of breath, the blink of eyes. A melody as soft and soothing as a nightsong or the touch of
fingertips on flesh, the finest experience of which is harmony; the fullest expression
of which is love. That rinsing rhythm reminds us we are not in Nature but of Nature, and that for all the evil in the world there is a will
that wishes well, a vast benevolence which holds us in its palm, a clasp that is
the span of space and the timelessness of time. We are not alone, will never be alone, so long as that consoling, cupped caress contains us, and bears us safely
through this darkling universe until we reach at last the end of rainfall night.
