The cleansing nature of a summer squall
It has been the summer to be cleansed.
The rain has washed us, encouraged growth, swollen creeks, muddied paths and made rivers rage.
As an angler and someone who gains spirit and purpose from my steps outdoors, the weather serves as a catalyst to how purpose and spirit evolve.
For this writer, evolution has been laced with raindrops on my head and a wetness in my soul, and oh, how cleansed I have been.
I awakened at 2 a.m. to heavy rains and even from sleep, the mood was rhythmic. The summer heat contributed to showers that held me captive for an hour. When I awoke again a few hours later, the rain had long gone and her result was puddles on the ground.
The ground was soft, the grass heavy. My steps were sloshy and gentle, and the pond was stoic. The water was still and the steam evaporated delicately from her surface.
With pole in hand, lure tied and face stubbly and unshaven, I hesitated to cast for a moment. I know there are times to cast and moments to hesitate, and this was one when my hook could wait.
The need to pull and tussle, catch and release was not so important now. Though the intensity of a mid-summer night’s release had sheltered me, the residue of her power was with me now.
All was still while I was cleansed. All was quiet while the power of her presence washed over me. I was cool and warm, tired and revived and when I found my purpose by this familiar pond, I let sail my hook and lure and fished.
The rains came. Though we had traveled many miles to this place, clouds and moisture loomed on the horizon. The sun was ever valiant in her attempt to cleanse the sky and bring light to the day. Still, the clouds were relentless.
We were offshore in deep blue water. The boat was sailing east with the wind from the north and west, and soon the clouds had obscured the sun. The squall was sharp and her approach slow. The shear line of heavy rain encompassed us.
For a moment, there was an attempt to retreat beneath the bridge where the rain would not reach. Then into the squall we trolled. There was silence and only the frolicking nature of rain could be heard.
Then there was noise, the explosion of a reel and the tug of a fish. The rains were cool, and against bare skin her drops were just enough to sting yet soft enough to heal.
The rain formed streams from my head to my chin and back. There was no drama to her purpose, for I was just an angler and this was just another fish.
Eventually, the fish was caught, baits found their place and order was restored. Yet at the corner of a boat at sea, the rain was welcomed and its touch seemingly sterile.
The rains came for all of the day that should have been bright, warm and dry. Her showers were like the drums, then her drizzle was like the song of a harp. Eventually, her mist was like the tapestry sung from a flute, and what remained was the orchestra of frogs, crickets, birds and the sound of the slow retrieve of a reel.
In the remaining moments of a shortened day, again violets, reds, blues and some grays were the puddles in the sky. The rains would come again this night. The drums would sound. The noise would awaken.
Still, after she softens the ground in the morning and her drops sting, a fish is caught. All the while, cleansing has occurred.
Enjoy your time outdoors.
You may contact Jason Hawkins at email@example.com.