The rain is perfect: steady, sometimes strong, but constant, throughout several days and evenings. I turn off music — any music — in order to listen to the gentle patter of rain, especially at night. The ancient symbol for purification is still fresh, perennial, despite the layers of cultural diversions. The rain pours on the trees, birds, flowers, the man-made objects. One day, caught in the rain while insisting on finishing a garden trim, I want to bolt into the indoors, but, already soaked, I linger, and let the rain wash through me. …