(Originally written: March 13, 2021)

With eyes shut on a clear day, the sound of dry leaves rushing along the road can be momentarily confusing. The sun’s warmth alighting on skin. Light illuminating the darkness of closed eyelids. A hair teasing breeze. The tangible lack of water. But the ears would tell a different tale. The movement of leaves, with no moisture in their brown curls, sounds just like the beginning of rainfall: 

When the silence of a clear day is cast aside by the arrival of water. Peace one moment. A relative cacophony the next, each drop striking a chord and giving its part to the symphony. 

The rainfall slowly trickles to the background. It becomes a silence of its own that encompasses everything under it. The body is aware of the rain but is filtering it out, adding it to the rhythm of its functions and not needing conscious attention. Like breathing, like the beating of a heart, the rain becomes a guarantee.

Then it’s gone. The lack of raindrops becomes loud. A quiet so tangible it can almost be held in a tender embrace.

Slowly, surely, the new silence becomes its own beating heart. Easy to forget.

But quietly confident in its importance.