This afternoon the first rain of summer’s end came down. Not a heavy rain — the kind that arrives timidly, asking permission, and leaves a smell of wet earth in the air.
I stayed a while by the window, watching the patio floor darken. Without opening anything, without doing anything. Just listening.
August rain reconciles me with the idea of stopping. After so much sun, of light without rest, the water brings a different silence. As if everything — me too — could slow down.
I think of the people who pass through my sessions these days. Many arrive carrying the tiredness of summer, the feeling of having held too much. Rain is that too: letting go of what can no longer be carried.
I like this change. The light turns softer, greyer, gentler on the eyes. And the body, without being asked, settles into the autumn that is already peeking through.
I ask nothing of the rain. I just stay a little longer, letting it fall.