Dandelions and Rain

Between the fronts of heavy rain, with a bucket in hand, crouching, I plucked the heads of dandelions. Bogs kept my feet dry, but my hands were soon soaked from the drenched grasses, and rapidly staining yellow. As I harvested, hips and lower back were reminding me of old injustices, yet their voices were softer than they've ever been. The new pain at the side of my heel squalled very much like a child in the beginnings of a tantrum. I didn't ignore it. Rather .. I soothed it, gently pointing out the glistening drop of water captured in a clover, how the ray of sun turned it into a jewel, and look, here the march of spiders weaving through the long, broad blades (I love spiders). It seemed that my heel-pain sighed and unlocked itself. Still, I could not work long ... but longer than I might have expected. It was the next hurl of rain that sent me fleeing back into the house with my treasures. The flower heads now reside in single layers within the freezer, waiting until I am ready to make the tea ... which can be used for consumption, but in this case will be used for making soap.

I used to dread rain, now I love it. I used to fear my pain ... now I listen, hearing the echo of silenced weeping in the long-ago darkness.

The day is coming when I will shed the need for this pain.

I believe. And that is the source of strength.

with grace and much gratitude for all the souls who share their stories here ....
^_^

 

You are a wonder, Lily Rose, picking dandelions in the rain. I love the picture that gives me.
I too love rain, even if I'm in it. I have three large skylights over my living room ceiling and
love the sound of rain on them, especially when I'm sleeping.

Rain is restful to me, and calming. I think of rain washing away the dirt of the world and
making everything clean and new and fresh. Of course, I feel sorry for those who are harmed
by rain in any way.

It's great that you no longer dread rain, or used to fear your pain. In TMS we learn acceptance
and change. You certainly have.

Years ago when I was a boy, my year-older sister and I walked miles to greet our mother
when she finished work at the Campbell Soup Company in Chicago where she peeled potatoes
all day in cold water which gave her hands arthritis. On the way there I picked some yellow flowers
in an empty lot and gave her a small bouquet of them when we saw her. She accepted them as if they were roses,
but they were dandelions. I was too young to know they were considered weeds. To me, they were just very pretty flowers.