One Brief September Rain ...

... and other signs of renewal

Welcome to Quiet Reading, a weekly reinforcement for your confidence in our shared humanity, inspired by authors, books, and this world of marvels.

As announced last week, we are pivoting from Monday to Friday posts, but in case you missed the message, here’s a quick hello at the old time to set the tone for the month.

I’ll be back Friday with a regular post about an author that I think you know and a story that possibly you do not. Even famous people make mistakes and find a way to live with them, just like everyone else. Stay tuned ….

For now, have you got that delicious feeling of September yet? Yes, no? Not a September person? Here’s what this season means at my house:

I.

I am a big fan of September, not just because I always enjoyed school or because the days are cooler. My birthday comes at the end of the month, so September comprises my personal Christmas and Advent: day of renewal anticipated by restlessness for renewal.

On my fortieth birthday, my parents surprised me by driving into town to join the baby watch. I had planned no milestone party, since my firstborn was due five days later. Instead, we all speculated about whether I would give up exclusive rights to my day. But no. The newcomer was perfectly comfortable sloshing around at his original address, unconvinced that he had anything to gain from emigration. He took his time.

This week it’s my job to schedule his driving test. So much for comfort at his original address. The tallest guy in the house is on the move. It’s pretty awesome.

Photo by Eric Grossarth, EastIdahoNews.com

II.

Thunder calls me out of bed to greet the low, grey dawn. Listen, it says. I have plans for you.

Does everyone think about T. S. Eliot when they hear thunder?

My favorite part of his poem “The Waste Land” is the last section, called “What the thunder said.” Actually, it’s really only the last two lines that I care for, but the landscape of “Rock and no water and the sandy road” needs to be established in order for the thunder to mean what it does: the chance of rain to a parched people.

Eliot’s Thunder knows Sanskrit and is older than the Hindu Upanishads. It cracks, “Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata,” three injunctions meaning: Give, Sympathize, (Self-)Control, a plan for life that promises wisdom and wholeness. The poem ends with a ritual conclusion, “Shantih, shantih, shantih,” or “Peace, peace, peace,” which sounds an awful lot like the shhhhhhh of a late-summer gully-washer drenching everything in sight.

Yesterday’s thunder gave us a good fifteen-minute soak, the most refreshing thing in weeks.

It started with tentative pellets striking the pergola. “Sorry, sorry, wrong address,” they seemed to say, creeping quietly off after that first knock. You’ve heard this kind of rain: approach, retreat, give up. And then.

And then some careless god tripped over a valve up above. Rain surged down with a spatter of crabapples onto the pavement and a whoosh in the taller trees. The honey locust, elms, and cottonwoods swayed from lot line to lot line, gossiping: It’s here! September! Open! Drink!

I sat by the open door, listening to the pop-up percussion ensemble. The cats came and went as if to help circulate the fresh-scrubbed air.

September, you gift.

Photo by Denis Ba at Pexels

III.

If you read my June essay about the flower I forgot I had seeded, almost weeded, and rejoiced to see in bloom, you’ll have a sense of my dismay when I hired someone to help me clean up the yard last month, and I came home from school to see the long arms of my prize evening primrose neatly trimmed down to the better-looking foliage. You’ll recall that this night-blooming flower closes up during the day, so for all the world it looked ripe for deadheading.

Next time, I’ll communicate better, I thought.

At least I got a month or so of exquisitely fragrant yellow blossoms and happy pollinators.

And then.

And then the darned thing did something I didn’t know it was capable of.

Here is my splendid songflower just this morning, shorter now, but densely, adamantly abloom:

And every one of those blossoms smells like a citrus-and-honey farm.

Mmm-mmm.

September, you surprise!

*

Okay, maybe this turned out to be an actual post after all. I love our rendezvous here. But I’m moving to Fridays. I swear.

Stay well. We’ve had COVID in the house twice in three weeks — and by some September miracle it has left me alone (so far). The primrose and I are doing fine. So is the new driver, as restless with anticipation as can be.

See you Friday — or thereabouts.

Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.

Shantih, shantih, shantih.

Tara

Your turn:

1. What’s your take on September?

2. Got any stories to boost confidence in newly licensed drivers?

3. Do you have a better translation of “Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata”? (I’ve also seen Be generous. Be compassionate. Be disciplined. If you read Sanskrit, are these more like active imperative verbs or Be verbs with nuance?)

4. What’s your favorite poem about rain or thunder?