... and Saturday

It rained all night. It's still raining this morning. George is a bit put out by his enforced stay indoors; he's missing his ball. According to the weather map, we're due for a break in a little while, but another storm sits off the coast. We watched the news this morning, saw Washington DC snowed in--an appropriate metaphor for the state of our government. We watched news clips of Tom Tancredo at that Tea Party convention, spouting hateful right-wing racist propaganda. We will abstain from watching the former Governor of Alaska...

It is, actually, quite delightful to be in our cottage, listening to the rainfall on the roof. I was reading, yesterday, of Thich Nhat Hanh's saying that it's a mistake to say "the rain is falling." What is rain if it is not falling, he asks? Better to say "the falling is the rain." I'm not quite sure that I understand this subtle enigma. Maybe it's a Zen thing, as they say--though Thich Nhat Hanh is not Zen.

Which comes to me from a book I happen to be reading. More of which tomorrow. But then, what if tomorrow is not tomorrow--which it never is? You see what I mean. (I think that George understands these things much better than I do. For him, a ball is a ball is a ball, to paraphrase the inimitable Gertrude Stein. Whether falling or not.)