We were called from our beds by the rap of rainy fingers above our heads. All is green, everything washed away, our pant legs, open toe shoes absorbing the moisture. Soaking in the wash, anticipating the clean. Should we seek shelter and watch from the inside of the window panes the rives rush through the gutters and streams on the way to a better place? Or should we lock ourselves out, jump in the puddles, and let the drops of world fall down around us, soaking us through and washing us clean?

I need a new day, I thought to myself, head on pillow, eyes to ceiling. I could see the fingers a-rap -rap-rap. Loud drip after cacophonous drip falling upon shingles, white plastic gutters outside the windows full of old glass that don't quite stay open. I need a new day. Wash me. Forgive me. Forgive myself.

I thought about where I could find an index card, a purple marker, scotch tape to affix a reminder: Stop trying to please everyone. I need a new day. A new heart. A new me.

I find myself here, in this strange space between who I was and who I am going to be. One leg across the tracks on the side of child, student, inexperience. The other foot dripping with the puddle of grown-up, teacher, brave person. I'm not that yet, I don't think. The forest seems rugged and prickles from the inside-- the love and passion I felt for the whole back behind at the trailhead. Where have I lost that to?

These days, I look in at me and feel hurt. How did I get all of these skinned knees? How did I get to the point of so may mistakes, so many wrong-spoken words, confused thoughts. My life, the obstacles feel a thick gray-- is there a way out? Will there be clarity, love, compassion, peace again? Or is this simply my life now? I wonder I wonder I wonder.

Sometimes it is hard to remember that the drops are still falling. Sometimes it just feels wet and old and cold and broken and fearful and it is easy to forget that the water is washing away all that is old and unneeded. I wonder if the grass always drinks it in or if he too, gets tired and wishes for the sunlight again. Are the trees shuddering with cold and anticipation too-- or is that just my quivering little heart?

I hope someday I will be brave. I am doing hard, nearly impossible things, it seems, but I do not feel brave. I feel as though I've retreated into my shell, only to emerge when forced. The steps and small and progress feels slight. Will I ever move again, will I ever be out in the open sky, wings spread?

What is tomorrow? I do not know-- All I know is today. I forget today too often. Too many times I get dizzy waiting to grasp that which has not been promised. Photos of the past bring sea-sickness, fears of the future cripple. There is only today, there is only this rain, falling and washing and quietly waiting for the cleanse to be complete.

I wandering into the gardening store on Tuesday and stumbled upon a small embroidered plaque that simply read: Nature does not hurry, and yet everything is accomplished. How sweet a thought-- all is accomplished and I need not hurry. All that is required for today is complete. And I am accepted, forgiven, loved, and pleasing either way. There is no expectation for me to be any other than who I happen to be. How strange and idea. How foreign a reality. And yet it is. And the rain washes all except that which is needed for tomorrow-- if that is what we are given.