Early morning of a rainy Sunday as I slip out the front door, barefoot, making a slow dash for the newspaper. The air is rain fresh, richly damp, the small puddles softly gleam in the cloudy grey light, flickering in the light rain.
I dodge to avoid a snail on the wet sidewalk, instinctively bow and say...something, namaste, good morning, I greet you, how's it going? Hey, snail, nice day, huh? I'm not sure which, but my hands palm-to-palm and I bow. It seems as much in the nature of things as peeing when I first get out of bed.
The crow on the light pole gives me a raucous good morning and I return it. The one rose--a little brown and withered at the edges, bt nicely rain speckled and brave--we bow to each other. I'm not so brown but I am a bit withred and weathered at the edges and I hope to be brave and so we greet each other.
I pick up the paper, double bagged in plastic. Water sheets off onto my bare toes splashing up onto my flannel pants, leaving the hems dripping and clinging to my ankles. The raindrops sparkle on John's metallic grey truck. Clutching the sopping plastic paper I realize, as more water sheets down my pants, that I have bowed good morning to the truck.
It does not bow back.
My feet are getting cold and the soggy clinging pants are uncomfortable. I'm moving as quickly as I can back up the sidewalk, but I pause to see how far my snail has made it this morning.
He, she, it hasn't moved. Because the snail is actually a curved snip of a succulent, probably blown by the wind, balled up and turning brown.
I laugh as the rain blesses my upturned face. Namaste to a snail which is really a twig, I bow to a truck, the crow calls, two withered but brave roses bow to one another....
Maybe the truck bows back and twig becomes a snail? What difference does it make? It is. We are. Twig that might be a snail, snail that might be a twig, woman who might be...or not. Dazzlingly different, incredibly one.
Nameste, good morning, bowing to snails and twigs and rain sparkled trucks. laughing as we bow.