Dharma rain in north London

The ongoing opportunity to turn gray into technicolor. Our wondrous and most handsome cat, Vajra Rinpoche (or as my partner reminds me, Lord Vajra Rinpoche the Brave in full), is enjoying a nap on our bed. Curled into a furry comma, he acknowledges and breaths, stretches and breaths. Ever my wise teacher.

The sound of the raindrops on the porthole (aka the skylight at the top of the stairs to the Zolder, our loft studio) have taken over from the tap, tap, tapping of earlier peckings of pigeons. Puzzled at the sound (the pigeons, not the rain), I looked downstairs and then thought ‘Aha!’ and looked up at the porthole. It appeared that Charles the plump Wood Pigeon was doing a trial run at playing Santa and attempting to peck his way into the house through the porthole.

So this Dharma rain. What it is? Why isn’t is ‘just’ rain? Maybe it’s acid rain? Or we can see it as nourishment for the plants, filling reservoirs and water butts for future hydration, cleansing the sewers. Like the Dharma. Entirely plastic to its circumstances yet underneath its apparent form, its content and intent can be interpreted widely.

Your choice. Cold, soggy, uncomfortable, dreary. Or refreshing, cleansing, nourishing, flexible.

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