Is there anything more glorious than a warm summer rain?
As I watched water falling from the sky, and how happy my flowers looked, I heard something clearly, a kind of holy poetry.
“Come feel my velvet drops on your skin, sink your bare feet into the mud of blooms, climb the granite rocks and feel millions of years of stability, strength, and surrender to change. Let the water kiss your shoulders and thighs with burning flowers. Let me remind you of the sacred parts of your deepest soul.”
I thought I heard thunder as I climbed the rocks and sunk my feet into the wet soil, but it was just the purring of my soul. I wanted to skip and splash across the wild grasses, but the ground was too uneven, and I had to tiptoe carefully or risk sliding and face planting, both of which I have done before.
The sky started to dump buckets of rain on me so I couldn’t see, and instead of running for cover, I lifted my arms above my head, palms to sky, and let the warm summer rain drench me, reveling in the exquisite sensations.
When it started to lighten again, I parted my hair which was now covering my face like a velvet curtain covers a stage, and saw a group of waist-high weeds growing, covering some spectacular bright orange lilies. I tip-toed over and started to yank them out, wrestling with the ones who refused to let go. I found myself talking to my ex while I yanked, each weed becoming a battle with my own inner thoughts, the ones that allow my ex’s words to bring me down and make me feel powerless.
“Get out of my life!” I shouted to the weed. “Get out of my head, you toxic snake pit!”
When I had yanked the last weed, I looked up in a daze, my legs, arms, and face were spattered with mud. I had twigs in my hair and I was panting. Everything looked gentle all of a sudden, like the rain had softened the jagged edges of the world. I tilted my head back and let the rain land on my face, landing soft and sweet like fairy kisses from my mother. I laid down on my stone wall and let the rain mix with the hot tears running down my face until I was ready to go inside for a hot bath.
Later, when I was telling my friend Cristie about this experience, I told her that when I played Exile by Taylor Swift while weeding, the entire experience got even more cathartic.
She laughed and said “Anger gardening sounds very therapeutic. If you want to do some more, feel free to come over. I have a Sonos here and a nice little patch for you to come weed.”
Then I thought, I wonder if Anger Gardening is a form of therapy?
If it’s not, it should be. It’s dazzling in its wildness and simplicity. I watered my soul garden with my tears and my rage, then lifted my face to the rain and felt my soul bloom into a thousand blossoms lit by fireflies.
