Open Hand

Two dogs sit at my feet.  I sit with my coffee and journal on the porch.  Its a quintessential moment of american repose.  Gabrielle sits writing.  Birds chirp.  The neighbours stars and stripes waves idly in the humid breeze.  All of a sudden the rain begins to fall.  The leaves shudder with the dance of the drops.  The air cools and I immerse my self in the sound of their pitter patter.

I am reminded of an incident while cycling down Vancouver island.  A rare leaf fluttered down from a tree overhanging the highway.  As it wafted downwards I approached on my bike.  I raised and opened my hand as if to catch it-- surely a preposterously impossible feat given its cascading flutter and my unadjustable linear trajectory.  

The leaf fell into my open palm.  It was almost unnecessary to close my fingers its landing was so perfect.

Sometimes I yearn again for the open road.  I must remind myself that the summer leafs that fall from these trees and the wind that blows them are no different.  The same magic is there.  One's hand needs simply to be open.