A couple of days ago, I got a phone call. It was my Dad. He said, “Look outside. Believe it or not, it’s raining.”
So I did, and it was. Which is pretty cool, because we go for several months every year with no measurable rain at all. The Santa Barbara area is basically an arid coastal plain; in other words, a desert. This pretty little spattering didn’t really break the rule, because it wasn’t measurable. And it seems like every summer we get one bleak spattering, one wimpy thunderstorm, barely damp above the level of dry lightning. But it was nice – a brief reminder that God is in His Heaven, etc.
His neighbor walked up to him and said, “Hey, wise old man, it’s raining.”
“I know,” he said.
“You’re getting wet.”
“Indeed.”
“Why don’t you open that umbrella?”
“Oh, my umbrella?” He held it out and looked at it, and showed it to his neighbor, as if the man hadn’t already seen it. “This umbrella?” said the wise old man. “Oh, it’s been broken for many years.”
“Then … oh dear … then why in the world are you carrying it around?” asked the neighbor.
“Because I didn’t think it was going to rain.”
“Humility,” the Master answered.
“And how long is the path?” asked the student.
“How would I know?”
I thought I heard
the Summer die.
It was a small sound
and hollow.
He sat here with me
under this sky made of steam
with a tired smile
and his hat on the floor.
We only said Good morning
and that was always early
But there was one day
of rain,
one shower at midnight.
I hope he will forgive me
his sad sad death.
(c) 1992 by Kyle Kimberlin
Metaphor 