Letters from the Catskills: What the Rain Knew
Some days, the mountains disappeared.
Fog would roll in before sunrise and wrap the house in a gauzy silence, softening every edge. I’d wake to a world made of mist—gray, quiet, hidden. And yet, if I looked closely enough, I could still trace the dark green spines of the evergreens stretching along the skyline. Still there. Still rooted. Still reaching.
At first, the grey days made me restless. I thought solitude was supposed to be golden-lit and clear, filled with revelations and breakthroughs. But solitude, like nature, has its own rhythm. And some days, that rhythm is rain.
It didn’t take long before I began to love those soft-weather mornings. I’d hike alongside Birdsong Lane even when the clouds threatened, protected just enough by the canopy above me. The trees would catch most of the downpour, letting only a slow drip reach the forest floor—gentle, rhythmic, blessing-like.
Eventually, the rain would find me. And I welcomed it. The coolness against the heat of effort. The clean sting of it on the back of my neck.The slow way it soaked through the layers, washing away something I hadn’t known I was carrying.
There is a quiet mercy in getting wet and knowing you’ll dry. In letting yourself be touched by something wild and uncontrollable—and knowing you’re still safe.
I stopped rushing back to shelter. I lingered in it. Let it baptize me a little.
The rain taught me how to stay with myself on the shadowed days. How to stop resisting what comes. How to recognize beauty even when it arrives uninvited, with its hair matted and its sky heavy.
And I remembered: Just because you can’t see the mountain doesn’t mean it’s gone. Just because you feel tender doesn’t mean you’re weak.
And sometimes, fog is the very thing that makes you pause long enough to see what’s still holding you.
Practice: Let It Rain
This is a practice for soft days. For when things are unclear. For when you are learning to stay with yourself, even in the mist. You’ll need just a few minutes and window, or an open door, or your own breath as company.
Sit Quietly: Find stillness. Place both feet on the ground. Close your eyes if you can. Take a deep breath in. Let it be slow, like fog moving through pines. Exhale gently, as if releasing something you don’t need to name.
Imagine the Rain: Picture a soft rain falling—on trees, on rooftops, on your shoulders. Let it be cleansing. Let it be permission. What are you willing to let be washed away?
Whisper to Yourself: Say, out loud or within, “I do not need to be clear to be whole. I do not need the sun to grow. I let this moment hold me, exactly as I am.”
Remember: Even in the fog, the roots run deep. Even in the rain, you are becoming. Some days are made not for doing, but for softening. Let them.
