I’m in a storm.
It isn’t a thunderstorm, it’s the torrential downpour type of storm. I can’t see anything ahead, I only have what’s in front of me.
What do we do when visibility is limited?
I have options.
1. I can panic and run, flailing my arms.
It’s raining! I have to get out of this storm. Banging on doors, sounding alarms, it’s raining everyone! Instigating panic at the obvious precipitation. What is that doing for the present moment? It is acknowledging the fear of rain. The unknown of whether this storm will pass or endure forever.
It makes you think of all the things that could happen but probably won’t because of the rain.
2. I can take shelter.
I can watch the rain come down in a consistent flow. I can connect with the water and imagine the wash out that is occurring all around me. I can become the observer and see that nature needs this water, even though I do not. Something is served because of this storm.
3. I can acknowledge the waters rhythm—it’s steadiness becomes my steadiness.
4. I can rage.
I can be angry about the inconvenience of weather. My anger can cause overflow like the rivers and lakes. It can disrupt the contentedness of my surroundings. I can burst and become an undeniable force that will be dealt with and recognized.
I can swell and pressure through to release.
5. I can dance.
I will dance in the grass, rejoicing it’s existence. I will jump in the puddles like Fred Astaire.
6. I can run.
The wild child can run through the woods. Rain is the chance to be unpredictable.
7. I can absorb.
I’ve never feared the rain before. I delight in the smell. It’s an old friend that visits and invites me to play. It shows me its influence. The solid becomes slick, the firm becomes soft, the dry becomes wet.
The thirsty can drink.
I can be brought to life with the earth’s hydration system, just like the eco system.
8. I can mimic.
I can become the downpour. I can find ways to saturate my surroundings. I can write with sappy emotion. I can love with abundance.
I can be slippery with evasiveness.
9. I can collect it.
I can water the plants when the rain is nowhere to be found. I can wash the car. I can wash the house windows. I can shine up my yard tools.
I can give the birds a bath.
10. I can hide.
I can stay inside and know the rain on the outside means I have been given time to stay indoors and tend to the inner life that the outer life often eludes. I can ask myself what I can do inside now that I’m hiding out. The choice to address or abstain to inner life can go either direction.
11. I can keep moving.
Hello rain…I have an umbrella! I have a raincoat, I have a poncho, I have a baseball cap. I can ride the bus or visit family members or friends. I can bake or cook!
I honor your presence and your purpose, but I have purpose too.
Today I can move with the rain.
When it rains, consider your options—just be sure to remember that you have options.
Author: Michelle Taylor
Editor: Renée Picard
Image: Caitlin Doe at flickr