It’s raining as I write this. Finally. Rain.
Come to wash away the dust of summer and autumn, the echoes of dry days past.
I am warm and comfortable inside my house; no fireplace but a small heater blasting hot air under my chair. A cup of coffee, flannel shirt and Vivaldi. Listen to “The Four Seasons” while the sky unleashes its bounty and you’ll soon understand something that can’t be put into words; something that artists and musicians discover in the void between themselves and their creator.
All this reminds me of the other day when I saw God sitting on a public bench.
I was riding my bike along a city bike path, and there he was. But he was a she. And though I’ve no proof, I’m sure she has no real home. At least not one with walls and a roof. I’ve seen her several times. She carries her belongings neatly strapped to a hand cart. Scraps of clothes, jar of cookies, feather boa and a boom box. No matter the weather, she wears a heavy coat with a furry hood, keeping out the elements, prying eyes and perhaps unwanted voices.