Ho Avy Ny Orana

Lay here listening to rain pounding down; again and again, over and over. This moment is isolated infinity where nothing but the sound of rain exists. No other noise, no other distraction. Not even any errant thoughts to take attention away from this, the glory of God's rain. This rain demands to be heard, to be felt. Felt in the bones, deep in the marrow, in the place where old men can tell the next day's weather. 

Ho avy ny orana. 

The rain comes- and it is present. There can be no ignoring it. But who would want to? There is something beautifully simple in this suspended moment, this paradox of deafening silence brought by a thunderstorm in the Madagascar new year. There is nothing to worry about, nothing to think about, nothing to do but to appreciate and listen. 

Hear nothing. 

Hear everything. 

But listen nonetheless.