It’s raining. Yet I feel good about it. There’s a restful quality to it, despite the wind and colder temperature. The snow is not yet with us. There’s a steady, moment by moment rhythm. Seemingly repetitive, yet always changing, unpredictable. The wind whips it up and the volume increases; then it slows and quiets so we can barely hear it.

Maybe I like it so much because there’s been so little of it lately. It threatened for a few days but hasn’t rained deeply for months. The earth is thirsty for it. People to the east of here, in New Jersey, have experienced its worst drought in 120 years, leading to extremely dangerous wild fires to an extent uncommon to the east coast.

Or maybe it’s the knowledge of the inconvenience of going outside, so I might as well stay where I am. Nowhere else I must go.

And it’s a gentle rain. But rain can also have the feel of a threat in it. It can mean floods. Loss of life. Water damage. And come with hurricane winds and destruction. It’s often used as a metaphor for feeling depressed, or for tears falling inside us. Or that something wants to be let out, or we want to let it out, or let something go.

Or it can be a relief, from drought, clearly. Or we can feel now I can stay home. Now I can give myself a break. Now I can cuddle up with a book or with my wife or friends. The sounds of rain can focus our attention right here, right now, making activities like meditation and contemplation easier. Right here I can find everything.

This calm reflective mood is exactly what I need to try to make sense of this frightening historical moment. After the election, I felt it was raining inside me, and the rain threatened to become an overwhelming storm. And now⎼ I want to sit comfortably and let my attention notice what is waiting inside. And if I can, to understand and feel this situation in a larger context.

This rain, this moment is the only time we have. It reveals the reality of one aspect of that larger context⎼ the earth around us. Aways here, present, to see, hear, feel. To love. We might want to hold onto the sight or sound of a raindrop or to this moment; or hold onto what we wished was here. But we never hear just one raindrop. It might stand out for a second. But it’s never still. One second, its right there; the next, it disappears into a whole universe of moving drops. When it dissolves, all that’s left is the echo of feeling, the echo of the whole world raining together. So, we let it go.

But at least we know ⎼THIS I CAN DO. I can take this breath, notice this thought, listen to the rain this moment. In this listening and feeling, so much more is included than I normally realize….

*To read the whole article, please go to The Good Men Project.