Church is everywhere

I woke up yesterday in the serene, charcoal shades of early morning. I was in bed drifting in that space between sleep and wake, the marrow of consciousness, where thoughts weave like lucid dreams. I heard the sound of rain and a giddiness rose from inside of me. It seemed as if hope and relief from the threat of drought to California were now tap dancing on my rooftop. Please don’t stop, I whispered to the rain. And for hours, it didn’t stop, and I let my own soul become saturated.

It was Sunday, and I thought today rain is church. Windshield wipers are church. The gentle sound of tire spray through new born puddles, church. The stop sign I frequent, became a drizzled work of art. The silhouette of barren trees on the lowered gray sky, more church. The white picket fence winked, charming me in a way it hadn't before. Even the playlist on my car radio- Liz Longley, David Gray, Jack Johnson, and Dave Mathews all sounded more intimate against the backdrop of rain. By way of gravity I suppose, the rain grounded my floating thoughts, swaddling them closer to my heart, and I felt all of them more purely.