Last night, lying in bed before sleep, I could hear the rain plop-plopping on the window sill outside a window that was slightly open. There was a rawness in the air, but under the covers I was six again, wallowing in protective, wonderful comfort and safety. The rain touched the slowly waning moments with delight.
Waking up five or six hours later, the rain was still plop-plopping and the air was still raw. The day lay ahead and the rain had taken a new mantle -- a burden in the upcoming future, a part of the stone being rolled uphill in a time that was right around the corner.
Going to sleep last night, I felt gratitude that I would no longer have to pay attention or be nagged by various aches and pains and the allergies camped in my nose and sinuses.
Waking up, I saw those same aspects in a different light -- a part of some knapsack to be lugged and overcome during the day. Something to whine about or (same thing, different day) not to whine about. A burden which I had looked forward to losing was now a burden I did not look forward to shouldering.
Rain, pain, gain.
Someone once said that perhaps "suffering" was nothing more than the resistance to pain. I don't know. I do know that all the words in the world will not stop the rain or the pain or the gain. And I do think that the opiate that sleep can seem to represent has lessons to teach. Escape is the easiest. But recognition of the pure evenness of things whispers as well.
Like the man said, "Sun-faced Buddha, moon-faced Buddha."