“The rain is the same, but it makes thorns grow in the swamp and flowers bloom in the garden.” – The Arabic wisdom
I read this quote from a book this morning and reflected on it. Perhaps the rain is not the thing I should question, rather than that I should ask: What is it that the rain finds in me?
The same sorrow that once made me bitter has, at other times, made me softer. The same loneliness that frightened me has also taught me how to sit quietly with myself. There were wounds I thought would only leave scars, yet somehow, years later, I found flowers growing beside them.
And still, there are places in me where the rain falls and nothing blooms. I wonder why. Is it because the soil is too hard? Because I have buried something there and refused to touch it? Or because I am still waiting for someone else to come and tend my garden?
I do not know.
For now, I am learning simply to notice.
Not whether the rain is good or bad,
Not whether my life has been fair, only this:
When life rains upon me, what begins to grow?
And when I look honestly, without judging what I find, perhaps that question is already a quiet beginning.
With love,
Little-pencil
Little-pencil 