These days the gods rumble in the dark wild sky, but no rain comes. Flashes of light cut through the swollen black clouds, but still wet days are few and far between. The afternoon sky is often a picture of wasted potential. Clouds gather like herds and swell, but they do not fall.
Perhaps they are in love, these masses of droplets leaning into each other, their hearts fused as one, so they do not want to part from one another. Or perhaps they do not love the great Mother Earth as they once did, no longer intent on falling to her feet to wet her soft body. The Earth doesn’t seem to cry about this. Instead, she rests in quiet presence and moves through moment to moment at her usual pace, seemingly content as slowly things in her midst begin to wilt and wither in a time when they should be lush and full.
It’s said to be our worst drought in almost three decades, and I’ve been hearing old songs of the land with new ears, ones that call to wild and ancient gods in the sky to send us rain. Drought is a humbling experience because it’s a time when the Earth reminds us mere mortals that we are not as in control as we’d like to delude ourselves into believing.
On days when I’m are fortunate enough for the heavens soak my heart with blessings, I walk in the garden and let the light touch of faint rain cleanse my body or I sit by the window to watch the showers fall. I take it all in, hold on to its preciousness like a forgotten piece of my soul and I think to myself – We were once rain dancers. Why don’t we dance for the rain anymore?