Sometimes when it rains I feel like the sky is telling a story to the world, a mystery of sorts without an ending. It’s not the kind of thing clear skies can do, for in sunshine there seems some sense of conclusiveness, as if it’s destination has somehow been reached. Rain and storm beckons the still and quiet soul to watch and listen to what can hardly be put into words. But then, even if there were such a word, would it really do it justice?
There are some things far too deep and rich to fit into a word, things that simply exceed all our attempts to define them. The trouble is, hearts that hear un-worded tales desire their translation, preservation and expression for those who do not, or perhaps purely for the sake of knowing it more deeply for themselves.
Rainstorm, waves of the sea, eyes of beauty and depth, music, color, love, wind….forever mysteries no matter how many times they’re explained or expressed. None of us can truly hold them in our mind for long, they escape and enchant us as they pass, capturing our gaze forever. We must return, we cannot help ourselves.
To catch and claim the wind, the sea or the mountaintop is not our true desire, but something in us still yearns to. We sing, we speak, paint and write, we sculpt and mold and define, trying to capture that which alludes us. And well we should. These things whisper secrets our deepest soul understands but cannot yet know entirely. Our mind searches and scrapes, trying with all it’s might to wrap it’s arms around that which beats with our heart, but it cannot quite be done. One day perhaps, in another place, and maybe that is why we try.
And what, for now, shall we do with these beautiful wonders after we’ve danced and sung and shaded their shadows onto paper? I imagine we must once again learn to wonder with them. Children tend to know something about this, though such wisdom never seems to last very long.
We learn so quickly to claim and take and define, to categorize and judge, to think our mind is the extent of the knowledge of an object or person or an idea. If what we behold seems to exceed what our mind can hold, we limit it rather than admit that we are what limits us. Expression is vital and good, but at some point we must stop and simply watch. I think we’ve lost the art of wonder and stillness in the presence of something bigger than what we see. And with that, we’ve lost the ability to partake in great beauty, beauty that might point us to something greater than ourselves.
As I watch the mystery of falling rain outside my window, I must allow the unknown to sit with me a while, the un-captured to pass through, enjoying what it teaches me as it disappears into the sky . I must ponder the subtle tale it tells, knowing I really won’t be able to retell it in full. And that, my friend, is a beautiful thing indeed.