chanting in the zendo

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With the zendo door open, the grey of the day tiptoed in, softly seeking out darkened corners. Outdoors, it was pouring. Inside, the incense rose as if to meet what was falling down elsewhere. The small candle shed small light.

The rain on the roof seemed to chant in words not-quite recognized. There was no unison in it but its lack of unison was unified ... sort of like the rumble and hum of voices on the New York Stock Exchange floor.

Now and then, there was strange thunder -- not a crashing peal but some long, flat-line growl that seemed to go on and on as it moved across the sky.

I was dry inside.

I got wet when I went out.
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