The rain has been falling non-stop for the past three days, but I don’t mind. I love the sound of rain drops, their constant, many little footsteps on my roof calm my soul. The clear pebbles that cling to my window pane are like tiny crystal balls that see a future of vivid green fields and blooming flowers – a vision of hope in this dreary world.

Some people see rain as a metaphor for difficult times. Sometimes the rain is hard and the wind is strong, blowing your umbrella straight up and pummeling you with sheets of water. Rain, like life, can show no mercy and offer only coldness.

My life certainly hasn’t been easy, it continues to provide its challenges almost daily. But its so important to see the beauty in the storm.

The lightning flashing in the sky revealing the dramatic shapes of the blackened clouds that go white for one second, the thunder shaking the foundations of your home, the wind screaming through your chimney and walls. They all share a beauty only few can see. They remind you of how alive you are. How fragile you are.

My mother used to say, “There is no beauty without pain.” This couldn’t be more true. Pain is beautiful when you see the final results. It alarms you that something is wrong and you get it examined, and sometimes you can fix it, and when the pain is gone, you feel so free and … beautiful.

Sometimes the pain seems never ending. But it makes you appreciate more in life, the little things, the time you can get out of bed, step over that obstacle without wincing, to be thankful you can actually see a sunrise and not just blackness. To all the people who are still able to see the beauty in life despite their pain. To make pain a reflection of your pulchritude and not of despair.

If you’re in pain, let it direct you to beauty. The smell of a rose, the laughter of a baby, a cat’s purr, a stupendous sunset, a vivacious ocean, the softness of a smile. Let the beauty of the earth ease this pain and soothe your wounds. Let the rain that descends on you cleanse and refresh for it will soon bring a brighter day. In the meantime, enjoy the canvas of the storm, smell the scents of water and savour the life it is sustaining. Yours.

I think my favourite sound is that of a train’s horn in the far distance at 2 am, when all is dark and quiet, and its haunting call reminds me I am not the only one awake. There are few in the houses of many that can’t succumb to sleep’s mercy at that hour, and it’s nice to know there is a mutual voice out there.

I can just see the engineer, pulling the horn’s cord to call out to those who are awake, a voice not just to alert, but to comfort and speak to those who are afraid for waking those around them. He is alone in the car just like those who feel alone in their beds, awake, unsleeping.

This reminds me of the scene in the movie The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, where he is in the hotel and can’t sleep. He rises and descends into the hotel’s kitchen to make tea, and speaks of listening to and watching his loved ones asleep in their beds while he is awake, protecting them so to speak.

Why do we stay awake? Why can’t we sleep along with everyone else? Thoughts persevere, creativity takes over, our energy cannot rest. There is something about being awake when everyone else is sleeping, the persistent peace, the bellowing quiet while listening to the subtle sounds you would not normally hear during the day. Something about having the place to yourself without interruptions. Something about listening to their rhythmic breathing that consoles and soothes your spirit.

There is a whole other world out there, one that is desperately yearning to be heard yet wanting silence at the same time. We love the silence yet want company from a distance. It’s hard to explain to those who hate the darkness.

3Rebecca Barnes, Dana Bidnall and 1 other3 Comments

Sitting here sweating.
My eyelids drooping.
The heat overcoming all my senses.
I am melting.
I am melting
into a pool of liquid human flesh,
my bones turning into syrup.
But I am not the only one melting.
The earth screams with vengeance,
“I’m too hot!
Stop with the exhausts, the fumes, the gasses!
I am not betraying you.
You have betrayed me by poisoning me
every single day of our lives.
I am only giving back to you
what you gave to me.
Misery, discomfort, scalding vapours that dissolve
all life around me.
The trees have been burning for years
but still you did not stop.
What do you expect after years of wounded skies?
I hurl my hot anger at you
for exploiting me
absorbing my air
and claiming it as your own.
Suffer now, my children.
There may still be time
to reconcile with me.
But until then,
you will melt.”

I think of her

and I see red

blood red

as in The Red Army Choir

I wore her red winter coat

because I liked it

We were standing in line at Massey Hall in Toronto

and there was a band of protesters forming

I looked over at them, confused

One of them yelled at me, ”Hey, you in the red coat, don’t you know better?”

I didn’t.  I was 15, going to a concert with my mom

She loved the music and didn’t care for the politics

We were here to hear them sing

We travelled two hours

on a school night, just to be here

They sang with their rich, deep voices and played a vibrant symphony

We were lifted, even as a protestor got in and started yelling at the audience

I didn’t know why these protesters were there

The choir was here for the celebration of music

I didn’t know what The Red Army was about

and I didn’t care.

I just wanted to be there with her

enjoying the moment, after the drive against the frigid sky with icy stars.

I wore her red coat

because I liked it

and it reminded me

of her

I looked for that coat

after she died

but it was gone

only to cloak my memories

Red

blood red

was her favourite colour

Bright, bold, punchy

stood out in the crowd

unlike her soft-spoken nature

I wore her red coat

because I liked it

and took the spotlight

away from her

One Sunday, at 14 years of age, I went to a Pentecostal church.

One Sunday, a young woman came to the altar crying. She had something to tell us. She stood beside the pastors, the deacons and elders, and confessed to committing a mortal sin. She had engaged in premarital sex, and was now pregnant. She was ashamed. She begged the congregation to forgive her. Every one was moaning in prayer and speaking in tongues. This was not the place for her to be.

One Sunday, I cringed for her. Where was the father of this unborn child? Why didn’t he have to get up in front of the congregation to confess his “sin”?

One Sunday, the shame, the mongering, the male dominance of the pastors, elders, and deacons all telling her what she did was so wrong. I wonder today how she ended up, if she received support or the ongoing humiliation.

One Sunday, my heart aches for women who fall under some churches’ rule and condemnation.

One Sunday, will we ever be free from the shackles of their interpretation of womanhood?

And the scribes and Pharisees brought unto him a woman taken in adultery; and when they had set her in the midst,
They say unto him, Master, this woman was taken in adultery, in the very act.
Now Moses in the law commanded us, that such should be stoned: but what sayest thou?
This they said, tempting him, that they might have to accuse him. But Jesus stooped down, and with his finger wrote on the ground, as though he heard them not.
So when they continued asking him, he lifted up himself, and said unto them, He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her. ~ King James Bible, John 8:3-7