Monsoon Hour

You are safe watching the birth of a monsoon from a high hill overlooking the Patti terraces. Behind you, a home of strong wood worn smooth by its many years of service as refuge from seasons such as this stands quiet and steadfast. Lanterns like wonder-filled eyes glow from its windows. You can almost feel their shadow plays tickling your back. It is evening and the rains are coming. It's time to put down the day and prepare for rest. To help us make the most of this special time, I think it's nice to begin with a little wind down. Tonight's wind down is a breathing exercise. So, when you're ready, let's begin. First, get comfortable in your bed. Now, just bringing the attention to the breath, just noticing where you feel it. In the nose, the throat, the chest, the diaphragm. You're nice and relaxed. We're going to be taking a deep breath in for four, holding it for four, and then breathing out for six. So, are you ready? Let's begin. In for four. Two, three, four. Hold it for four. Two, three, four. Now breathing out for six. Two, three, four, five, six. In for four. Two, three, four. Holding for four. Two, three, four. Out for six. Two, three, four, five, six. In for four. Two, three, four. Holding for four. Two, three, four. Out for six. Two, three, four, five, six. In for four. Two, three, four. Holding for four. Two, three, four. Out for six. Two, three, four, five, six. Great. Now returning the breath to normal. It falls like satin. Like a chorus of mirrors. It falls like stars, freely, ecstatically, it falls, knowing that it will be received with gladness. Where it hits the ground, steam rises, releasing stored heat from its hibernation. It falls on the faces of the orchid, and on the white star on the fur of the lowing buffalo's flank who is hitched to his post. It falls on the pebbled road that winds around the hill, pounding like a million butterfly wings. It falls on the shingled roofs of the homes scattered along the hillside, cascading from their edges into the ponds of golden koi, in the ditches that irrigate the paddy fields. On the head of children it falls as they break free of their parents' arms into the world of monsoon. A world where the air is liquid, where they play at being eels, sharks, boats, sailing for new lands, and shining with adventure. It falls into the clay pots the wise women have emptied of their rice. It falls into empty bottles left on ancestral shrines as tokens of remembrance. Into the muscled currents of the river that carries all hopes toward the blue unknowing, it joins its struggle. Into mouths and eyes, it delivers its silent news and nutrients from the other side of the planet. In straight lines, it falls, and falls, like violin strings from the sky. The gathered sound...