It Must Have Rained

It Must Have Rained

           It must have rained, ground wet, everything dripping. How could I have not noticed, sleeping as I do now with my cheek cushioned on the windowsill, breathing trees and stars.

           Two weeks ago, I separated from my husband by moving upstairs. It turns out it was not far enough, but I did not know this then. Raised the mattress to sill level, where I could pretend I was sleeping outside, perhaps nestled in the night sky, a newborn in the Milky Way.

           I slept oblivious to this rain, its whisper on the shingled roof, dreams undisturbed, but remember the feel of water on my skin, clothing wet, clinging to my body – a jubilant pure release.

           Remember. Skin is porous. Remember that word – membrane. Remember what I hold delicately within, what migrates, retreats, embarks. Out then in, in then out. The rain. The lilies heady scent. Remember years ago when I planted lilies outside our bedroom window. You could not stand their smell.

           Remember skin is porous. Remember what I hold delicately within. What embarks.

           Now as the rain begins once more – the tranquil air, this intangible rain. Bees and butterflies gone wherever it is they go. The membrane breathing in then out, as trees across the back field shine silver.

           Hawk calls me, somewhere near, as yet unseen. Inside the membrane.

           The noisy crows have moved across the valley. The old one, Crow will not speak my name this day.

           Small birds are dry and staying put.

           In your bed as the rain once more begins, you stir with Hawk’s cry and pretend to unsay all the things you ever said to cause me pain. Remember. Remember your own porous skin. Remember. The membrane, what is held. What part of you is dry, what part is staying put.

           You turn, release your unsaying. Hawk is silent. You step back into your dream.

           I have always wondered about your dreams.

           Dreams you have told me with plots – like movies. You awaken and then go back into them as though with a resume button on the remote. Often the same dream night after night. Sometimes these dreams disturb you, but you do not cry out as I moan and wail when the nightmares return.

           You deny your dreams might have meaning, that there could be a message, something you are meant to learn. You who know so much and nothing.

           Biological membranes have three primary functions: (1) they keep toxic substances out of the cell; (2) they contain receptors and channels that allow specific molecules to pass between the cell and the outside environment; and (3) they separate vital but incompatible metabolic processes conducted within the cell, according to the Encyclopedia Britannica.

            Absolutely true in both the physical and metaphysical.

           Recently I learned feathers are foam filled and interestingly enough, porous. When I shared this with Hawk and Crow they simply shook their heads.

           This morning I recognize the veil. I feel the veil and this intrigues them. And perhaps the most potent thing – I move through the veil and back. Drawn but often blind. I who know so little and everything.

           This moment I am content with the shimmer and silence and their passing through my skin. Content with the lingering jubilance of that unremembered rain being shared outward. Perhaps I am shining silver like the trees.

           Perhaps not.

           Breathing out then in, in then out, image of being nestled, part of the night sky expanding, passing through the membrane into the galactic environment easily as the grass absorbs the dew or one single drop of rain.

           Here, cheek on flaking wooden sill, nose against screen. Safely enclosed. Dry and staying put. Small bird with porous feathers. But remember what this one holds delicately within.

           It is near the time of the moon’s fullness. Its waxing. Time when Moon pulls seedling plants from the ground. Sprouting Grass Moon.

           How many times when I shared something deep with you, some small growth did you turn away. “That’s crazy, isn’t possible. I don’t know what you’re thinking.”

           Fear. You couldn’t bear to look.

           The words lunacy, lunatic and loony all have their origins in the word "lunar."

           This year the Wolf Moon held me as it has always held me, cold and howling. This year though there was, for the first time, the separation inside the veil of vital but incompatible metabolic/ metaphysical processes conducted within my organelle self.

           This year Snow Moon, the Hunger Moon did not devour me. I walked lightly across the brittle crust of Death Moon and left its worms hungering, and came to be in this place, place of Rain and Sprouting Grass Moon, dreaming.

           I was born in the Green Corn Moon. I followed along between the green corn rows learning to pull the ears by their feel the summer I was four years old. Corn stalks like trees dwarfing me. Dew and pollen falling upon my head and young shoulders like blessings.

           Skin is the largest organ of your body and since it is porous, it absorbs whatever you put on it.

           How to imagine my spirit with an organ like my skin. Remember. The membrane. What is being held delicately within. Breathing in then out, out then in. Receiving, adjusting, embarking.

           Somewhere in the dawning sky above me a silent star has begun to sing. It is the music of water.

           Music, most vital metabolic process within the cell. Moving in then out, out then in.

           Changing as the membrane breathes and shares. The way lake water is different than river water is different than the salty moonstruck ocean and yet all one.

           Singing differently in rock and air, tree and soil, bird and worm. Heart and brain.

           I think of all the places I feel the music – flowing through my hands in their work, pulled from the earth into the soles of my feet. My eyes, what they see and what is hidden.

           Music is seeping into your sleep like a slow leak. One day it will awaken you more gently than Hawk’s voice. You will not cry out. You will not step back into your dreams. Perhaps there will be jubilance, perhaps peace. Perhaps you will dance, embark.

           I am here now, feeling what I feel, the membrane breathing out then in, in then out.

           Shining silver like the trees in the backfield, jubilantly I walk into the rain.