The coat my consciousness wears in the rain
Is not really waterproof.
It catches the drops and holds them,
Growing darker,
Melding the edges of what I think I know
With a commentary that can enrich or destroy.

Sometimes the rain beats hard,
Sending pellets of ice into my heart,
Telling me that my words take up more room
Than they deserve.

And I believe it.
In fact, it is often my own thoughts that bring the rain.

The wisdom to know when –
When to amend
And when to keep to my own messy vision –
That wisdom often evades me
And I am left with a simple choice:
Say it anyway or keep quiet.

To say it anyway exposes me to the rain.
It demands that I dance within the storm.
It offers to cleanse me
But the scrubbing often hurts.
And parts of what I say will – should – wash away.
Leaving a fresher insight than before.
That which remains is strengthened.

It may even be that I don’t know what I’ve said
Until it rains.

I look up.
The rain is mixed with tears on my upturned face.
And I reach for my words, once more.
It is all that I can do.

[photo by Special per cc 2.0]

Tthanks to Maria Popova and Anne Lamott for the seeds of this reflection, here.]