Ornery

The rain came down sideways on the tent. I already wasn’t sleeping so I listened to it’s droplets, noted it’s hissing and welcomed it’s whispers. Quiet, as everything feels in that early morning hour, I attempted to translate it’s messages as each question and droplet travelled down the tarp. And yet, All I could do was re-imagine rains I’ve seen before. Frustrated that my darn nostalgia, yet again, had to intervene and wrap my cold bones in it’s familiar blanket. What I wanted was to feel what I was feeling in that exact moment. I wanted to leave my dreams for my double pillows. Desiring ornery existence. I stepped outside the tent to hold the rain in my hands, like a pocket. It pooled in my cup as it poured down on my head, I begged it to wash all the paint off this canvas, make space for newness. I looked across the yellow hay fields, a vignette of lustre green around each barrel and then vignetted again by the mist seeping into each edge. This pinpoint piece of focus in a vast blur of landscape. A snapshot, a memory, a fact, a text book example of the beauty you can find amidst such lack of clarity. And finally, releaf came in a release of those pointedly tense shoulders. I sat beside myself and beside my thoughts. And for one moment, I felt like not only was I my father's daughter, but that I was the embodiment of my old man.