It is so good.

I'm in my sunroom. It's the best room in the house, even aside from the fact that my piano is in here.

Outside, the earth is having a fit, and I absolutely love it. It cannot get better. Freer. I wish I could stand out in the middle of the road and let it flow furious around me. But getting all wet before I teach a music lesson in 30 minutes might prove to be a bad idea.

Instead, I stood outside the front door, under the overhead, and just watched. I pulled my hand out in front of me, in attempt to catch a rain drop. What is it about those two words that make it seem like magic? A rain drop. It's like catching fairy dust. I waited. My wrist was slashed. My elbow caught a splash. I brought my hand back to my side, and watched the ground. The stone stairs began to speckle. Beneath the umbrella of the oak tree a few steps away, only a few spots revealed moisture settling. I waited.

The fantastic fragrance of a summer storm could not be captured and enslaved in a bottle to be showered back onto my skin for a fancy evening. It is of unkept beauty. Wild, and mysterious as the sounds that come from the conflicts in the sky as I type. Thunder. No matter what, it always sounds like unspeakable excellence. I don't remember a time in my life when I was scared of the sound. It's almost soothing. In fact, I think it is just that.

I lent my hand back out before me, and made myself available for introductions with the rain. I waited for it to shake my hand. I presented myself unafraid of the unexpected fall of depth in the shades of the daylight. In fact, I don't think the storm could have been intimidated by me... I was quite happy to greet it, even though it did rattle my beach plans for the night.

I brought my hand back to my side. I crossed my arms. But it wasn't in a disapproving way. I slowed my vision to a leaf bouncing like a diving board just abandoned. The wet spread across the green. It looked fresh. It looked good. Like cool breath to a wound. The healing spread across the leaves around the one. My toes painted pink shifted beneath me, and caught a drop, and then another. The wind skid across the air with messengers of water, like a towel being flipped on the beach bringing a rush of sand. I watched the change take place, and again placed my hand out in front of me, willing to catch whatever should fall into it. Soon, a pool swam in my palm, splashing and running off my fingers. Each drop raced another. The wind stirred and slapped the trees around me. The rain changed directions, and I felt it on my knees, my arms, my face.

And now I'm just sitting in my sunroom, no lights. Just the accompaniment of the sounds my fingers make across the keyboard, and the sound lull of the wringing hands in the sky. I have a sliding glass door opened slightly. Enough to let the sounds of the storm patter louder into this room.

Can anything else sound like rain? If only I could sing like it. If only I could play like it. It's music with no instrument. It's music that just is, and requires nothing but ears to receive it.

With such unpredictability comes a snapping of thunder. It sounds like anger. But it sounds relieving.

And the at times, barely visible blinking of lightening.... like the calming, and diminishing sobs of a child coming to peace with his cry.

So refreshed.

And I've just realized I've hardly spoken for a time now. I've been quieted, hushed.

So much response outside.

It is good. It is so good. Let it be.