A Marriage of Three

Notes From the Hollow Bone | entry fifty-one

Last night the rain came hard here.

But this morning, the trees remembered it gently.

I have always loved the rain, yet somehow I never truly noticed the morning after it — not like this. Maybe it is because I now live surrounded by trees. Maybe rural quiet changes the way a person listens. Or maybe some beauty only reveals itself when we are finally still enough to witness it.

The leaves held the rain through the night.

And when morning came, sunlight filtered through the wet canopy in flashes of green and gold, every droplet catching light as though the forest itself had begun to glow from within. Then the wind would move through, softly, unexpectedly, and the trees would release what they had been carrying.

Not all at once.

Little shimmering rain showers falling from branches beneath a blue morning sky.

A marriage of three:
light,
water,
and wind.

And standing there beneath it all, listening to birds emerge from the quiet after the storm, I realized something strange and beautiful:

the rain had ended,
but the forest was still continuing it.

I think there are moments in life that are not grand enough for most people to notice. No fireworks. No announcement. No great unveiling. Just a soft, almost sacred realization that the world is constantly offering beauty in small living ceremonies all around us.

We simply move too quickly to see them.

The storm is movement.

But the morning after —
that is release.

And perhaps that is true for us too.

Perhaps we carry storms long after the sky clears.
Perhaps certain winds loosen what grief or memory has stored inside us.
Perhaps illumination only becomes visible when light touches the very thing we thought we had to hold alone.

This morning the trees made weather of their own.

And for a little while,

I stood beneath the trees

listening to the forest finish the rain.

With Grace & Ink,

— Mai