Rain, rain. . .

It is raining here this morning, and according to the weather pundits, it will rain for several days and well into next week - the September rains have arrived, and they will be with us for some time to come.

What does one do on a day like this? I rise early (as usual), make coffee and watch the subdued sun coming up over the ash trees in the garden behind the little blue house in the village. I spend some time (as usual) in meditation, and my slow deep breathing is punctuated by the metronome of falling rain outside the window. I just breathe in and out and relish the small rites and observations with which the day always begins, rain or shine. After the usual morning "stuff", I trot out to the garden clad in wellies and oilskins, top up the bird feeders and look closely at what is happening in the outer realms: the wind moving the trees about, the bronze chrysanthemums bowed down under the weight of the wet day, raindrops sparkling on the leaves, the intricate spiderwebs hung with liquid jewels and fallen leaves everywhere on the soggy grass.

On the greyest of autumn days, there is colour in the garden, and there is always much to look at and think about. The garden is a fine teacher, and it is a roshi of the finest kind (and very few words). I am always tempted to say (or write) "my garden" here, but it really isn't my garden at all - I am merely its celebrant and custodian in this particular time and place, and the same may be said of the day. There is little or no excitement here this morning, just peace and quiet and a lovely pearly grey light falling across everything.