Dear Friend,
We’re still in hurricane season down here on Magnolia Isle, and while we’ve been extremely fortunate this year, we haven’t quite escaped gray, rainy days.
In fact, I had to force myself to go out for my walk today. The weather was almost successful in convincing me to throw on some sweats and hunker down with a good book for the day. Almost.
But I pushed through and got outside. I didn’t go to my usual path; instead, I chose a place I rarely visit. The sky still misted with sinister gray clouds in the distance, and they seemed to close in with each step I took. I zipped up my rain jacket and sloshed on. The grassy path was saturated with water, rather than chance the mud, I opted to walk in the street. Just a brisk walk later, I found myself under the canopy of gorgeous live oaks. The mist gave way to a slight dampness as the trees provided their glorious cover. The air was different under them, somehow happier, despite the gray. Birdsong rustled through the leaves.
I almost felt like I’d stepped into my very own cocoon. Though I was hardly alone, and obviously not completely enclosed, it still felt very intimate. Instead of my gaze focusing forward, my eyes began to move upward. I noticed the branches standing regally, spattered with Spanish moss that waved as the wind whisked by. I noticed empty nests, bare spots, and even some Christmas lights that may have been forgotten (or intentionally kept on).
Mostly, though, I noticed the sound. I don’t know that I’m an apt enough storyteller to capture the way the sound feels still, yet full. Birds were moving, so that’s easy to identify. But there’s almost an echo when you’re covered with trees in that way. You can hear the rain pinging on the leaves around you, yet the sound that reaches you is only the faintest echo of it. Quiet is magnified, the sound of the rain is softened. Yes, you’re sheltered somewhat, but it’s more than that.
Something vastly more intimate than just some random leaves providing cover from the rain. It’s like the invitation you receive from your parent, or a spouse who’s pulled the blanket back and invited you to crawl into bed with them to gain strength in numbers for whatever emotion you need in that moment—comfort, calming fears from a nightmare, a cozy respite.
Listen to me going on… strange the things you notice when you slow down, huh? How is the slowing down going on your end? Have you managed to carve some time to sit without guilt?
Until next time,
— A Friend from Magnolia Isle
