“The cloud is free only to go with the wind.
The rain is free only in falling.”
~ Wendell Berry

I fell asleep last night to the sound of rain drops hitting my bedroom window, which is a singular pleasure I’m not often afforded. I grew up in Georgia, you see, where it rains more (in volume) than it rains in Seattle. Then I moved to the high-plains desert town known as Denver, and rain is a rare thing here. It snows (some) in the winter, and it storms in fits and starts in the summer, but the summer storms are rarely prolonged, slow rains that soothe the soul. When it rains like that, I’m reminded of home. The home I cannot return to because I have made a new home here.

This whole Terri Schiavo thing is not sitting well with me. I need to do some more reading on it, but I anticipate a rant may be forthcoming.

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