Every two weeks I lead a pre-dawn meditation group in public rose garden. This morning, waking up at 5:15 to rain and a cold front that had crept in, I didn’t expect anyone else to join me. But I thought I would head over anyway. There is a pavilion under which we could sit and stay dry.
When I arrived, I discovered someone already asleep there, also looking to avoid the rain. So as two friends joined me, we surveyed the weather and the hours of the local coffee shop, and decided we would at least sit under an old, broad oak for a bit. We could always leave if we got too wet or too cold.
The air was fragrant and fresh, and the birds, unusually active. Hopping closer than they had before and singing new songs. It was if they wondered what we were doing up so early, in the rain and in a new spot.
And after an hour or so, we did find our way to warm spaces and hot coffee. We spoke of poetry and birds’ songs and the business of plants. The morning was miraculous and perfect, and almost didn’t happen: Like so much else on the edges of our lives that is miraculous and perfect and just beyond our door or outside our normal routine.