The first big storm in years after the worst drought in CA history was forecasted to rain over 18” in 2 days.
The buddha sits quietly, his hands resting gently on his lap. His robe is plain and weathered by time. The slimy, little slug slims and slimes up his chest. The buddha doesn't mind. He sits quietly, his hands resting gently on his lap.
The shell-less snail slims and slimes his way up the rock of a man, who is cloaked in stone. Slowly but surely the little slug, moving at a snail’s pace, traverses up his neck and onto his rosy cheek. Still, the Buddha does nothing, he just sits quietly. The trees across the creek, where Buddha sits are tossing back and forth driven by the warm winds of the sudden storm. The giant mama bay tree digs her roots deeper into the ground as her outer branches dance to and fro.
The storm is just beginning, and yet buddha sits quietly, undisturbed by nature’s demand for change. The whole forest of trees bends together like ballerinas dancing in unison, arms outstretched, flowing here and there. Raindrops falling from slippery leaves to the once parched earth are the choir, melodic and seductive.
The trees rush to soak up the much-needed water, sending its freshness to their parched branches who are still cracking and groaning from the harsh drought. Nature keeps moving the lands, while Buddha sits still.
Is Buddha the rock that grounds the storm before me? Or am I the rock, sitting like Buddha, quietly being at one with the storm?
