Yesterday was the birthday of one of my favorite poets and writers, Wendell Berry. I think of him as the modern Thoreau. His essays, poems and stories reflect an understanding of humanity and our connectedness to each other and to nature that leaves me striving to live better. He digs deep into the soil of words, and I come away smelling the dirt and wanting to dig deeper too.
This morning while outside writing my morning pages I heard the rain approach. Within minutes I’d decided I was going for a walk in it. So I threw on a pair of old beige work shorts – the same color as my flesh as I’m not much of a sun worshipper – my black muck boots with the green soles, my green water-proof jacket and grabbed my bright red umbrella. Yes I know, a vision of loveliness.
Rain-walking gear
At times the rain on my umbrella sounded like grease sizzling on a hot skillet, at others it was the rat-tat-tat popping of a string of firecrackers. If I listened beyond the dome around me I could imagine being in a rain forest with the falling water muffled through trees. And of course I had to make splashes! I remembered being a kid and thinking how fun it was to stand in ankle-deep puddles yet not get my feet wet. I splashed and stomped a little just to see how far the water would go, watched how it landed.
I noticed patterns. From beneath the umbrella, the beads looked perfectly round and I thought about the plastic templates we’d get in school for drawing all the different diameters of circles. Some clung to the edge of the material like crystal globes, before rolling into the next, then to the rib point where they finally fell. We’ve not had rain for four days – a whole four! – so everyone took advantage and mowed their lawns. Today swirls of grass floated in the rivulets along the side of the road. Clumps of grass formed what looked like sand bars and barrier islands that changed the water’s course. Most days the cracked asphalt just reminds me the road needs patching in some places. Today the chunks of squares, separate but still puzzled together, became alligator skin just below the water’s surface.
The colors of the flowers were brighter. The scents of dirt, freshly mowed grass and rain were refreshing.
The longer I walked the happier and less encumbered I felt. I took a picture of my boots on my feet and sent it to family. One sister couldn’t believe I didn’t have rubber duckies or something more comical on them. Next time, Lynda 🙂 My kids were jealous. My other sister’s first words were, “Internal and external cleansing.” Yes Trudy, both.
And I’d like to think Mr. Berry would approve and maybe even do the same thing. I take great comfort in this … because I’m thinking my neighbors are wondering who the crazy lady was this morning walking in the rain.
A Poem by Wendell Berry, taken from A Timbered Choir, The Sabbath Poems 1979-1997
I went away
only a few hundred steps
up the hill, and turned
and started home.
And then I saw
the pasture green under
the trees, the open
hillside, the little ponds,
our house, cistern,
woodshed, and barn,
the river bending in
its valley, our garden
new-planted beside it.
All around, the woods
that had been stark
in the harsh air
of March, had turned
soft with new leaves.
Birdsong had returned
to the branches:
the stream sang
in the fold of the hill.
In its time and great patience
beauty had come upon us,
greater than I had imagined.
A Writer's Window 