everyone should wake up to the sound of rain on a tin roof.
Have you ever heard such a thing? I wish you would…
2-weekends ago I traveled with a few of the girls to their grandfathers land in the ‘up-country’ think beautiful rolling hills, high trees that speak of history, homes with tin roofs, and lanterns for lights. It’s a place for those who live in Kenya to move from life in the city.
2-Saturdays ago at 5am the rain poured poured poured. My belly was still full from the delicious meal and conversation the night before. I laid there with my eyes gently open, gazing upwards, I could not see because it was still completely dark, but I didnt need to. My heart started to beat loud and quick…I was for a moment concerned that I could wake up my sleeping friend next to me….but it wasn’t panic. ‘it’s not panic’ I reminded myself gently. It was as if my body was responding to the same rhythm around me, the pulse of being alive. The drum beat of the rain and the drum beat of my heart.
So my heart. And this pouring rain. We went one for one. And my favorite Norah Jones strummed it’s way across my memory. I have played this song for at least 100 savasanas, especially in the Fall when the rain in New York comes.
When the rain slowed enough, when the light came in enough, I moved just enough…to not wake anyone, but to step my feet onto the concrete floor and find the lantern that guided me to the front door. The haze of light surrounded by glass is my favorite kind of light. I made out the shape of things that I had gently studied the night before. The angles of the old furniture, the cabinet that held sugar for tea, the pictures of family hanging on the walls. I could just begin to see the blue of the walls, and as I do always, I wondered who chose the color.
The morning fog that came from the rain covered everything like a veil. I stood, breathing deeply, my slow gaze moving across the east to west panoramic green views. I have seen many beautiful scenes, but I’ve never seen anything quite like this. I heard the gentle click clack of tin pots, and strolled over to the kitchen where the girls Mom was preparing tea over the slow flame. ‘good morning’ she said. And smiled.
I watched her in her careful yet effortless ritual of bending over a slow flame, stirring in fresh milk from the cow, easing in the spices, not hurrying. She offered me a cup which I wrapped my small hands around. We exchanged the 5 words that she and I knew of each other’s worlds, giggling at each other’s attempts. And I wondered and smiled thinking of all the women in the world today that would hand each other tea….and I felt perfectly at home.
My watch said 6am. And as I do always when I wake and move in this hour, I feel like someone’s whispering secrets into my ear, the confession kind, the safest hours in the day when big dreams are shared with less abandon. The morning before most wake is that time. What the land will show you. What a flame can warm. What can be decided. What can be chosen.
The day moved beautifully. The fog burned off revealing the color green that I did not know existed. Our tribe moved together in a late morning walk, turning at ‘that giant tree up there, no, yes, no, yes yes that one by the goat’ to visit uncles and aunts and gramma’s. All opening their doors so that we could come in. All with tin roofs. I was given the honor of seeing how my friends live their lives, and how they will come to live them permanently when they grow older.
Beautiful storms of rain, bringing a fog like a veil, bringing a chill to the air, bringing the offering of tea.
When I close my eyes I can hear it. The rain on the tin roof.
I wont ever forget that sound.