Yesterday, much to my delight, I noticed that rain was in the forecast. Much, much needed rain. As the skies greyed through the day, I found myself murmuring, Come on, rain!, over and over again, making me think of Karen Hesse’s fabulous picture book of the same name.
Finally, at around 3 pm, the rain started. Just a sprinkle or two at first. Come on, rain! Next a misting. Come on, rain!! Then, finally, the mist solidified into steady showers. Come on, rain!!!! Looking out my window at my garden, I could practically feel the plants shaking the dust off, their roots stirring and drinking, leaves plumping. I imagined them as jubilant as the young girls in Hesse’s book:
Thankfully, it continued to rain through the night. A soft, steady rush of water. Come on, rain!
In the middle of the night, or perhaps early in the morning, I woke with words running through my mind. I reached for pen, paper, and my book light, then scrawled them quickly so I wouldn’t forget them.
When I awoke this morning, I reached for the paper, remembering I’d written something on it, but not fully aware of what I’d recorded. Canticle? Do I even know that word? As you can see by the “?” on my paper, even my night-time mind wasn’t sure it made sense or that I was spelling it correctly. I looked it up to find that I had spelled it correctly and used it correctly, too, as it means a “hymn or chant.” The mind’s a funny thing, isn’t it?
Here’s what I ultimately did with those words:
The Rustle of Plants: A Translation
On this morning of rain
after endless days
of sun’s piercing gaze
we absorb its blessing
and offer up
a canticle of praise.