Soothing Rain Quotes

My gripe is not with lovers of the truth but with truth herself. What succor, what consolation is there in truth, compared to a story? What good is truth, at midnight, in the dark, when the wind is roaring like a bear in the chimney? When the lightning strikes shadows on the bedroom wall and the rain taps at the window with its long fingernails? No. When fear and cold make a statue of you in your bed, don't expect hard-boned and fleshless truth to come running to your aid. What you need are the plump comforts of a story. The soothing, rocking safety of a lie.

I don’t want you to go yet. I like having you here with me. You soothe me, baby.” He rested his head on top of mine. “You are my ray of light in a fog of ignorance and frustration.

The Day is Done The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight. I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me That my soul cannot resist: A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time. For, like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavor; And to-night I long for rest. Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start; Who, through long days of labor, And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies. Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction That follows after prayer. Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice. And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away.

...When people lose their way and lack a real purpose for living they often fall back on certain forms of escapism as a form of self-soothing...

The rain is, in a sense, The sole sad friend of those who find themselves Thinking, wide awake, until the dawn, Who, in bed, alone, with fevered hands, Listen to it, soothed. They like the company Of its faint moan across the sleeping plain, Its rustling in the garden all night long. - On the Great Grey Road (Sur ce Grand Chemin Gris...)

I need you like a blossom needs rain, like the winter ground needs spring-to soothe my parched soul.

This rain doesn’t cleanse my skin, nor soothe my battered and broken body. It doesn’t hide my tears. It burns.

The winter rain, joined my rambling with its soothing potter- patter.

Dreams reveal facts about ourselves that we ignored. Dreams help us see hidden truths. Dreams, sometimes, are just soothing songs.

Sometimes, on days when the weather was beyond redemption, mere residence in the house, situated in the midst of a steady and continuous rain, had all the gliding ease, the soothing silence, the interest of a sea voyage; another time, on a bright day, to lie still in bed was to let the lights and shadows play around me as round a tree trunk.

Some of my pleasantest hours were during the long rain-storms in the spring or fall, which confined me to the house for the afternoon as well as the forenoon, soothed by their ceaseless roar and pelting; when an early twilight ushered in a long evening in which many thoughts had time to take root and unfold themselves. In those driving northeast rains which tried the village houses so, when the maids stood ready with mop and pail in front entries to keep the deluge out, I sat behind my door in my little house, which was all entry, and thoroughly enjoyed its protection.

What succor, what consolation is there in truth, compared to a story? What good is truth, at midnight, in the dark, when the wind is roaring like a bear in the chimney? When the lightning strikes shadows on the bedroom wall and the rain taps at the window with its long fingernails? No. When fear and cold make a statue of you in your bed, don’t expect hard-boned and fleshless truth to come running to your aid. What you need are the plump comforts of a story. The soothing, rocking safety of a lie.

Running in the rain steals my breath. Ruins it. Smashes it. Nearly eradicates it. When I arrive home, my soaked clothes are stuck to my skin. My shoes are slouching. My toes are cold and stiff. Erratic strands of my hair stick to my temples and forehead, dripping all over me. I stand in our small garden, catching my breath, and press a shaky palm to my chest. My heart’s palpitations grow uneven and out of beat as if protesting. I close my eyes and tip my head back, letting the rain beat down on me. Soak me. Rinse me. The droplets pound on my closed lids almost like a soothing caress. I’ve always loved the rain. The rain camouflaged everything. No one saw the tears. No one noticed the shame or the humiliation. It was just me, the clouds, and the pouring water. But that’s the thing about the rain, isn’t it? It’s only a camouflage, a temporary solution. It can only rinse the outside. It can’t seep under my skin and wash away my shaky insides. Wiping away my memories isn’t an option either. It’s been barely an hour since Aiden had his hands on me – all over me. I can still feel it. His breath. His nearness. His psychotic eyes.

The sound of the waves was more soothing than any other sound in the world, save maybe the rain.

I love the rain. It calms me down, somehow, soothes my reckless heartbeats. It’s like chamomile tea for my soul.

The history of Immanuel Kant's life is difficult to portray, for he had neither life nor history. He led a mechanical, regular, almost abstract bachelor existence in a little retired street of Königsberg, an old town on the north-eastern frontier of Germany. I do not believe that the great clock of the cathedral performed in a more passionless and methodical manner its daily routine than did its townsman, Immanuel Kant. Rising in the morning, coffee-drinking, writing, reading lectures, dining, walking, everything had its appointed time, and the neighbors knew that it was exactly half-past three o'clock when Kant stepped forth from his house in his grey, tight-fitting coat, with his Spanish cane in his hand, and betook himself to the little linden avenue called after him to this day the "Philosopher's Walk." Summer and winter he walked up and down it eight times, and when the weather was dull or heavy clouds prognosticated rain, the townspeople beheld his servant, the old Lampe, trudging anxiously behind Kant with a big umbrella under his arm, like an image of Providence. What a strange contrast did this man's outward life present to his destructive, world-annihilating thoughts! In sooth, had the citizens of Königsberg had the least presentiment of the full significance of his ideas, they would have felt far more awful dread at the presence of this man than at the sight of an executioner, who can but kill the body. But the worthy folk saw in him nothing more than a Professor of Philosophy, and as he passed at his customary hour, they greeted him in a friendly manner and set their watches by him.

One day it had rained before sunrise, and a soft spring wind had been blowing ever since, a soothing and persuading wind, that seemed to draw out the buds from the secret places of the dry twigs, and whisper to the roots of the rose-trees that their flowers would be wanted by and by.

That’s the experience I’ve gained from working in the garden: there’s no reason to be cautious or anxious about anything, life is so robust, it seems to come cascading, blind and green, and at times it is frightening, because we too are alive, but we live in what amounts to a controlled environment, which makes us fear whatever is blind, wild, chaotic, stretching towards the sun, but most often also beautiful, in a deeper way than the purely visual, for the soil smells of rot and darkness, teems with scuttling beetles and convulsing worms, the flower stalks are juicy, their petals brim with scents, and the air, cold and sharp, warm and humid, filled with sunrays or rain, lies against skin, accustomed to the indoors, like a soothing compress of hereness.

I love rain. I love the sound of it falling on an umbrella, each drop that hits the cloth a soothing sound. Everything is so fresh and clean. It always feels as if each drop is helping to wash away the hurt, the pain, the dirt that life leaves behind. As if the mere act of it falling can give life a rebirth, a second chance.

O life as futile, then, as frail! / O for thy voice to soothe and bless! / What hope of answer, or redress? / Behind the veil, behind the veil … She felt alert, somehow – perhaps awake was a better word: everything seemed clearer, as if a fog had lifted; colours were sharper, the edges of things more defined. The world no longer felt muted and grey and far away – behind a veil. It felt alive again, and vivid, and full of colour, wet with autumn rain; and vibrating with the eternal hum of endless birth and death.

Hush. Shhh,” a soothing voice whispers in my ear. I feel the sofa cushions being pulled out from against my back. Then warmth envelops me. Firm muscles embrace me from the space where the cushions used to be. I’m groggily aware of masculine arms wrapping themselves around me, their skin soft as a feather, their muscles steel velvet. Chasing away the ice in my veins and the nightmare. “Shhh.” A husky whisper in my ear. I relax into the cocoon of warmth and let the sound of the rain on the roof lull me back to sleep.

There are few sounds as soothing to me as the gentle patter of rain falling outside.

The rain is a long standing friend. On several nights, it’s gentle patter drowned out all noise and soothed me to sleep.

She’s the rain, soothing the fire in me, washing the rage

I will lead an exodus with my lips, and soothe the hearts of my lovers with my tongue. I will never cry wolf, trust me.

Life doesn’t stop when we grieve. Learning to soothe our suffering—choosing how to move through our pain—that is where the prize is.

Owen took Nora’s hand and squeezed it. She leaned her head against his arm, and beneath the layers of grime and torn silk and the frantic beating of her heart, something whispered to her. A cool cup of water soothing her parched throat. A breeze in the middle of India’s scorching summer. A dance beneath monsoon rains. This is right. This is good. This is worth it.

The character of the Indian's emotion left little room in his heart for antagonism toward his fellow creatures .... For the Lakota (one of the three branches of the Sioux Nation), mountains, lakes, rivers, springs, valleys, and the woods were all in finished beauty. Winds, rain, snow, sunshine, day, night, and change of seasons were endlessly fascinating. Birds, insects, and animals filled the world with knowledge that defied the comprehension of man. The Lakota was a true naturalist - a lover of Nature. He loved the earth and all things of the earth, and the attachment grew with age. The old people came literally to love the soil and they sat or reclined on the ground with a feeling of being close to a mothering power. It was good for the skin to touch the earth, and the old people liked to remove their moccasins and walk with bare feet on the sacred earth. Their tipis were built upon the earth and their alters were made of earth. The birds that flew in the air came to rest upon the earth, and it was the final abiding place of all things that lived and grew. The soil was soothing, strengthening, cleansing, and healing. This is why the old Indian still sits upon the earth instead of propping himself up and away from its live giving forces. For him, to sit or lie upon the ground is to be able to think more deeply and to feel more keenly; he can see more clearly into the mysteries of life and come closer in kinship to other lives about him.

Mrs Ramsay, who had been sitting loosely, folding her son in her arm, braced herself, and, half turning, seemed to raise herself with an effort, and at once to pour erect into the air a rain of energy, a column of spray, looking at the same time animated and alive as if all her energies were being fused into force, burning and illuminating (quietly though she sat, taking up her stocking again), and into this delicious fecundity, this fountain and spray of life, the fatal sterility of the male plunged itself, like a beak of brass, barren and bare. He wanted sympathy. He was a failure, he said. Mrs Ramsay flashed her needles. Mr Ramsay repeated, never taking his eyes from her face, that he was a failure. She blew the words back at him. "Charles Tansley… " she said. But he must have more than that. It was sympathy he wanted, to be assured of his genius, first of all, and then to be taken within the circle of life, warmed and soothed, to have his senses restored to him, his barrenness made furtile, and all the rooms of the house made full of life—the drawing-room; behind the drawing-room the kitchen; above the kitchen the bedrooms; and beyond them the nurseries; they must be furnished, they must be filled with life.

Outside the wind rushed through the mountains, and thunder cracked. The dark clouds burst, and rain pelted down in sheets. Out of the trees loped a huge black wolf with pale, burning eyes. As he approached the small porch, the powerful body contorted, stretched, shape-shifted into a heavily muscled man with wide shoulders, long dark hair, and slashing silver eyes. He stepped onto the porch out of the pouring rain and regarded the two men facing him. The tension was tangible between Mikhail and Byron. Mikhail, as always, was inscrutable. Byron looked like a thundercloud. The newcomer’s eyebrows went up, and he leaned close to Byron. “The last time someone got Mikhail seriously angry, it was not a pretty sight. I do not wish to attempt to replace major organs in your body, so go take a walk and cool off.” The voice was beautiful, with a singsong cadence—compelling, soothing even, yet it clearly commanded. It was a voice so hypnotic, so mesmerizing, even those of their kind were drawn into its power.

Girlfriend doesn’t seem like the right word for what you mean to me. Probably that’s what I should be calling you to other people, since I can’t introduce you at parties as my submissive. But to me, saying you’re just my girlfriend would be…it would feel like I was saying I wasn’t pleased with you, or proud of you. And I am. I’ve never had a submissive of my own before, because I’ve never met anybody I felt a connection with until now. On the other hand, I’ve also never had a girlfriend, so I don’t have a basis for comparison.” [...] “The thing is,” Ivan went on, his voice soft and soothing over the counterpoint of the howling wind outside, the insistent thrumming of the rain on the rooftop, “I think this is love. But I’ve never been in love before, either, so I don’t know.

It’s a funny thing about a good porch overlooking the ocean. It was great in hot weather when you needed shade. It was good when it rained to be close to nature but stay dry and safe. It was soothing in the dark, or it could be a place to whisper secrets late at night. So

Have you ever experienced spring...from the wrong side?” she slowly asked. “I mean...have you ever felt how malicious spring can be toward someone in pain? In the morning, early, early in the morning, birds start singing. Just a single one at first, while it's still night. You can hear it celebrating out there; the night is mother-of-pearl and blood. And the silence whispers, it whispers and buzzes of love and happiness; only it's not for you. There's sparkle and whistle in a bird's voice, but also crying. It is so beautiful and it feels like a burning scorn to your loneliness. Everything beautiful is sometimes horrible. Spring has almost always been horrible for me. As a rule I can only stand it when it rains. I like fall the best. There's something cool and soothing about it. Fall is the best time for the lonely.

The sound of the rain that soothes me The sound of the rain outside my window pane Gives nostalgic feelings Makes me think of thrilling things The whispering sound that stirs things up In the pouring rain, that wonderful feeling That makes you smile and cleanse your soul That peaceful feeling you don't want to go Somewhere along the journey Just enjoy the view The rain will pass You still have a long way to go When the next rain comes don't just enjoy the view When the next rain comes I will get off and dance in the rain with you Happy thoughts!

I grow more comfortable with the fact that emotional hardship does not have an end point. Triggers will present themselves, and sometimes I don't know what the hell I am doing. But I take comfort in knowing that I have the ability to learn new ways to self-soothe when grief strikes.

With chopsticks, I cut through the dark-skinned egg, releasing molten yoke into waiting broth. Face bathed in the warming steam, I tasted. Sheltered from the rain Soothing train, ramen-numbed brain I reap contentment With the Zen meal consumed and consumed by the Zen meal, I exited back into the chaotic Tokyo night.

From inside Dancy's warm, safe womb Bonaventure heard two voices singing, and his little heart beat out a raining tattoo as if to keep in time with the song. He had no suspicion that anything had changed, because for him they had not; he'd always known these two voices, one soft, one deep and had always found them soothing.

Sleeper in the Valley" The river sings and cuts a hole in the meadow, madly hooking white tatters on the rushes. light escalades the strong hills. The small valley bubbles with sunbeams like a beerglass. The young conscript bareheaded and open-mouthed, his neck cooling in the blue watercress; he's sleeping. The grass soothes his heaviness, the sunlight is raining in his green bed, baking away the aches of his body. He smiles, as a sick child might smile himself asleep. O Nature, rock him warmly, he is cold. The fields no longer make his hot eyes weep. He sleeps in the sun, a hand on his breast lies open, at peace. He has two red holes in his left side.

I picked him up and set him against the steering wheel, facing me, his feet on my thighs. The huge lament continued, wave on wave. It was a sound so large and pure I could almost listen to it, try consciously to apprehend it, as one sets up a mental register in a concert hall or theater. He was not sniveling or blubbering. He was crying out, saying nameless things in a way that touched me with its depth and richness. This was an ancient dirge all the more impressive for its resolute monotony. Ululation. I held him upright with a hand under each arm. As the crying continued, a curious shift developed in my thinking. I found that I did not necessarily wish him to stop. It might not be so terrible, I thought, to have to sit and listen to this a while longer. We looked at each other. Behind that dopey countenance, a complex intelligence operated. I held him with one hand, using the other to count his fingers inside the mittens, aloud, in German. The inconsolable crying went on. I let it wash over me, like rain in sheets. I entered it, in a sense. I let it fall and tumble across my face and chest. I began to think he had disappeared inside this wailing noise and if I could join him in his lost and suspended place we might together perform some reckless wonder of intelligibility. I let it break across my body. It might not be so terrible, I thought, to have to sit here for four more hours, with the motor running and the heater on, listening to this uniform lament. It might be good, it might be strangely soothing. I entered it, fell into it, letting it enfold and cover me. He cried with his eyes open, his eyes closed, his hands in his pockets, his mittens on and off. I sat there nodding sagely.

She thought it funny how the poor environment had been raped just fine until there was a sufficient excess of the people who had effected the raping to produce sufficient numbers of themselves who were sufficiently idle that they might begin to protest the raping of the environment, which was irretrievably lost to the raping by that point. And this would be the great soothing cathedral music, the stopping of the chainsaws amid the patter of acid rain, that all good citizens would listen to for the quarter-century it took them all to wire up to cyberspace and forget about the lost hopeless run-over gang-ridden land, reproducing madly still all the while, inside their bunkers listening to NPR.

These pastries are gorgeous colors," she said. "I didn't even know I liked green, but I do. It reminds me of her. I keep thinking of her grandparents' house in India. My mother and aunt grew up in the city, but their grandparents grew coffee on a plantation a few hours away. Have you ever heard of Coorg? It's this region in the south of India where people grow tea and coffee, and they have the most beautiful forests, and we used to go there every year when I was little. My mother would take me out to show me the coffee blossoms and the tigers in the forests. It was always so green there, and the air always felt like rain. And now it's raining here and it's all just wet and cold and I'm scared that-" She broke off. "I don't know. Sorry. I'm probably not making much sense." Lila was quiet for a moment, and then she said, "What are you scared of?" Anna shook her head. She couldn't shape the words, and she wasn't sure she could say them to someone she had only just met anyway. To distract herself, she took a bite of one of the pan dulce Lila had given her. It almost melted in her mouth, moist and sweet and perfectly crumbly. "This is amazing," she said. Lila beamed. "I'm glad you like it." Another bite, another taste. Lila continued to swing gently, back and forth, in an oddly soothing rhythm. The taste of the pan dulce on Anna's tongue felt soft, comforting, like a friend holding her hand.

Ah,” said Dolly, with soothing gravity, “it’s like the night and the morning, and the sleeping and the waking, and the rain and the harvest — one goes and the other comes, and we know nothing how nor where. We may strive and scrat and fend, but it’s little we can do arter all — the big things come and go wi’ no striving o’ our’n — they do, that they do;

It didn’t matter who other people believed her to be. It didn’t matter what they thought of her. This was who she was, and she was ready to embrace it. “You are no soft thing to be coddled.” His voice was soothing as the season’s first rain, and she shivered from the way it glided upon her skin. “You are bolder than the sun, Signa Farrow, and it’s time that you burn.

There is no reason to deprive your body of love, beauty, creativity, and inspiration, Chopra said. I wrote out a collection of sensory memories from childhood, recalling how it felt to be nourished and soothed. Rice steaming, rain outside. Standing in a towel heated by the tall furnace, feet dripping on the hardwood floor. The smell of sun on asphalt. Cold water on my face in the morning. Eating a bowl of cereal at midnight. The sound of a page turning as I am being read to. The thud of a peach falling. The dusty smell of sand. The scorch of cocoa, the sticky film of melted marshmallow. Spongy insides of bread sopping up tomatoes and vodka sauce. I am reminded of what I am capable of feeling. The ways I consume, my senses opening to receive, at ease, indulgent.

She is fragile as the morning dew melting in the warmth of a child's smile; stirring at the lonely, lovely waft of a butterfly's wings; tender as the curve of a wildflower petal. She is fierce as a summer storm now raging against the fiery sky; now raining tears to soothe the sun-scorched earth. She is soft as a midnight breeze swaying to the sound of waves breaking on distant shores; whispering comfort to a world steeped in the dark night of inhumanity. She is brilliant as the rising Phoenix lifting the suffering from the ashes; her own suffering woven into wings of fire in the long watches of the night. She is serene and turbulent as the silvered water hiding currents unknown beneath the gentle gaze of a human who has walked a thousand miles and still has more to go.

I was a hurricane. A swirling blackness, no substance of my own but the remnants of the chaos and destruction I had caused was interwoven within my own fabric. Then like the sunshine bursting through the dissipating clouds after an April shower, the rain drops audibly slowed to a silence, she settled me. That was not the expectation. Her soothing effect on me. My heart. My mind. My feelings.

A morning-flowered dalliance demured and dulcet-sweet with ebullience and efflorescence admiring, cozy cottages and elixirs of eloquence lie waiting at our feet - We'll dance through fetching pleasantries as we walk ephemeral roads evocative epiphanies ethereal, though we know our hearts are linked with gossamer halcyon our day a harbinger of pretty things infused with whispers longing still and gamboling in sultry ways to feelings, all ineffable screaming with insouciance masking labyrinthine paths where, in our nonchalance, we walk through the lilt of love’s new morning rays. Mellifluous murmurings from a babbling brook that soothes our heated passion-songs and panoplies perplexed with thought of shadows carried off with clouds in stormy summer rains… My dear, and that I can call you 'dear' after ripples turned to crashing waves after pyrrhic wins, emotions drained we find our palace sunned and rayed with quintessential moments lit with wildflower lanterns arrayed on verandahs lush with mutual love, the softest love – our preferred décor of life's lilly-blossom gate in white-fenced serendipity… Twilight sunlit heavens cross our gardens, graced with perseverance, bliss, and thee, and thou, so splendid, delicate as a morning dove of charm and mirth – at least with me; our misty mornings glide through air... So with whippoorwill’d sweet poetry - of moonstones, triumphs, wonder-woven in chandliers of winglet cherubs wrought with time immemorial, crafted with innocence, stowed away and brought to light upon our day in hallelujah tapestries of ocean-windswept galleries in breaths of ballet kisses, light, skipping to the breakfast room cascading chrysalis's love in diaphanous imaginings delightful, fleeting, celestial-viewed as in our eyes which come to rest evocative, exuberant on one another’s moon-stowed dreams idyllic, in quiescent ways, peaceful in their radiance resplendent with a myriad of thought soothing muse, rhapsodic song until the somnolence of night spreads out again its shaded truss of luminescent fantasies waiting to be loved by us… Oh, love! Your sincerest pardons begged! I’ve gone too long, I’ve rambled, dear, and on and on and on and on - as if our hours were endless here… A morning toast, with orange-juiced lips exalting transcendent minds suffused with sunrise symphonies organic-born tranquilities sublimed sonorous assemblages with scintillas of eternity beating at our breasts – their embraces but a blushing, longing glance away… I’ll end my charms this enraptured morn' before cacophony and chafe coarse in crude and rough abrade when cynical distrust is laid by hoarse and leeching parasites, distaste fraught with smug disgust by hairy, smelly maladroit mediocrities born of poisoned wells grotesque with selfish lies - shrill and shrieking, biting, creeping around our love, as if they rose from Edgar Allen’s own immortal rumpled decomposing clothes… Oh me, oh my! I am so sorry! can you forgive me? I gone and kissed you for so long, in my morning imaginings, through these words, through this song - ‘twas supposed to be "a trifle treat," but little treats do sometimes last a little longer; and, oh, but oh, but if I could, I surly would keep you just a little longer tarrying here, tarrying here with me this pleasant morn

I’d been used for so long, I’d forgotten how pleasurable sex could be. “I will obliterate any motherfucker who lays a hand on you again … I’d kill for you.” In his bed, amid the darkness, the destruction, the ruin, he fixed me. His gentle hands delicately fastened together the pieces of me that’d become so broken and scattered with no hope for convergence. As I lay beside him, the soothing tap of rain against the window, I felt whole.

The pole stood against a brick wall which was the windowless side of the neighborhood school. Francie found that no two bricks were alike when she looked real close. It was a soothing rhythm the way they were put together with crumbly thin lines of white mortar. They glowed when the sun shone on them. They smelled warm and porous when Francie pressed her cheek against them. They were the first to receive the rain and they gave off a wet clay odor that was like the smell of life itself. In the winter, when the first snow was too delicate to last on the sidewalks, it clung to the rough surface of the brick and was like fairy lace.

Finally, I have come to realise that an imperfect Life is actually the most perfect Life. I have come to see how Life is beautiful in all its colours, more so because the shades of grey bind them and paint them with even more radiance. A clear sky is always beautiful but what if we never have rain or storm? Sunshine is always wonderful but what if we never have the soothing dusk or the cold night to coil in our own misty self? Storms that come to jolt us often leave us with more courage as we sail along the gust to chase a silver lining. The scorching heat that chokes us often makes us wait more eagerly for that balm of rain. So is Life, in all those moments of sunset we have the hope of the following sunrise, and if we may wait and absorb all that crumbling ray of that sunset we would be able to paint our sunrise with even more crimson smile. Because just like a story, nothing in Life is really concrete without patience. We cannot skip pages of a book because each line contains just so much to seep in, and to have the story fully lived inside our heart and soul we have to keep reading until the very end to feel that sense of peaceful happiness, that always clutches us no matter how the ending is drafted. In the same manner, we have to keep walking through Life, as each and every step of ours leads us to the destination of our Life, the destination of peace, the destination of knowledge of self. The best part of this walk is that it is never a straight line, but is always filled with curves and turns, making us aware of our spirit, laughing loud at times while mourning deep at times. But that is what Life is all about, a bunch of imperfect moments to smile as perfect memories sailing through the potholes of Life, because a straight line even in the world of science means death, after all monotony of perfection is the most cold imperfection. So as we walk through difficult times, may we realise that this sunset is not forever's and that the winter often makes us more aware of the spring. As we drive through a dark night, may we halt for a moment and watch for the stars, the smile of the very stars of gratitude and love that is always there even in the darkest sky of the gloomiest night. As we sail along the ship of Life, may we remember that the winds often guide us to our destination and the storms only come to make our voyage even more adventurous, while the rain clears the cloud so that we may gaze at the full glory of the sky above, with a perfect smile through a voyage of imperfect moments of forever's shine. And so as we keep turning the pages of Life, may we remember to wear that Smile, through every leaf of Life, for Life is rooted in the blooming foliage of its imperfect perfection.

Dance with me', he says. There is a longing in his voice, and loss, and she thinks, perhaps, it is the end, of this, of them. A game finally played out. A war with no winners. And so she agrees to dance. There is no music, but it does not matter. When she takes his hand, she hears the melody, soft and soothing in her head. Not a song, exactly, but the sound of the woods in summer, the steady hush of the wind through the fields. And as he pulls her close, she hears a violin, low and mournful, along the Seine. His hand slides through hers, and there is the steady murmur of the seaside. The symphony soaring through Munich. Addie leans her head against his shoulder, and hears the rain falling in Villon, the brass band ringing in an L.A. lounge, and the ripple of a saxophone thorugh the open windows on Bourbon.

slow.             And she sang, like the moan of an autumn wind              Over the stubble left behind:               Alas, how easily things go wrong!                A sigh too much, or a kiss too long,               And there follows a mist and a weeping rain,                  And life is never the same again.                 Alas, how hardly things go right!                  'Tis hard to watch on a summer night,                  For the sigh will come and the kiss will stay,                  And the summer night is a winter day.             "Oh, lovely ghosts my heart is woes              To see thee weeping and wailing so.             Oh, lovely ghost," said the fearless knight,              "Can the sword of a warrior set it right?             Or prayer of bedesman, praying mild,              As a cup of water a feverish child,             Sooth thee at last, in dreamless mood              To sleep the sleep a dead lady should?

Like a seed buried underground, my heart was dormant, surrounded by darkness, waiting for the nourishment of love. Then you came along, like water, quenching my thirst, and bringing warmth to my soul. With every moment we share, I feel the warmth spreading, awakening my heart, and giving me the strength to break through the soil of doubt and fear. In the midst of my heart, a garden of love began to bloom, and with every petal that unfurls, I feel myself rising above the ground, reaching for the sun, and radiating the beauty that was hidden within me. You are the sunshine that illuminates my path, the gentle rain that soothes my soul, and the fertile soil that allows me to grow. With you by my side, I am no longer the seed buried in darkness, but a radiant flower, blooming with love, hope, and joy. Together, let us tend to this garden of our hearts, nurturing it with kindness, compassion, and understanding, and watch as our love continues to flourish.

she throws herself into her safest refuge: herself; this moist trace on her cheeks, this burning in her eyes, are the tangible presence of her suffering soul; gentle on one's skin, barely salty on one's tongue, tears are also a tender and bitter caress; the face burns under a stream of mild water; tears are both complaint and consolation, fever and soothing coolness. They are also a supreme alibi; sudden as a storm, coming out in fits, a cyclone, shower, deluge, they metamorphose the woman into a complaining fountain, a stormy sky; her eyes can no longer see, mist blurs them: they are no longer even a gaze, they melt in rain; blinded, the woman returns to the passivity of natural things. She must be vanquished: she is lost in her defeat; she sinks, she drowns, she escapes man who contemplates her, powerless as if before a cataract. He judges this way of behaving as unfair: but she thinks that the battle has been unfair from the beginning because no effective weapon has been put into her hands.

Possibly, the main reason for my father’s respectability fixation was a fear of his inner chaos. I felt this, viscerally, because every now and then that chaos would burst forth. Without warning, late at night, the phone in the front hall would jingle, and when I answered there would be that same gravelly voice on the line. “Come getcher old man.” I’d pull on my raincoat—it always seemed, on those nights, that a misting rain was falling—and drive downtown to my father’s club. As clearly as I remember my own bedroom, I remember that club. A century old, with floor-to-ceiling oak bookcases and wing-backed chairs, it looked like the drawing room of an English country house. In other words, eminently respectable. I’d always find my father at the same table, in the same chair. I’d always help him gently to his feet. “You okay, Dad?” “Course I’m okay.” I’d always guide him outside to the car, and the whole way home we’d pretend nothing was wrong. He’d sit perfectly erect, almost regal, and we’d talk sports, because talking sports was how I distracted myself, soothed myself, in times of stress. My father liked sports, too. Sports were always respectable.

Caxtons are mechanical birds with many wings and some are treasured for their markings-- they cause the eyes to melt or the body to shriek without pain. I have never seen one fly, but sometimes they perch on the hand. Mist is when the sky is tired of flight and rests its soft machine on the ground: then the world is dim and bookish like engravings under tissue paper. Rain is when the earth is television. It has the properites of making colours darker. Model T is a room with the lock inside -- a key is turned to free the world for movement, so quick there is a film to watch for anything missed. But time is tied to the wrist or kept in a box, ticking with impatience. In homes, a haunted apparatus sleeps, that snores when you pick it up. If the ghost cries, they carry it to their lips and soothe it to sleep with sounds. And yet, they wake it up deliberately, by tickling with a finger. Only the young are allowed to suffer openly. Adults go to a punishment room with water but nothing to eat. They lock the door and suffer the noises alone. No one is exempt and everyone's pain has a different smell. At night, when all the colours die, they hide in pairs and read about themselves -- in colour, with their eyelids shut.

You remain. (Hebrews 1:11) There are so many people who sit by their fireplace all alone! They sit by another chair, once filled, and cannot restrain the tears that flow. They sit alone so much, but there is someone who is unseen and just within their reach. But for some reason, they don’t realize His presence. Realizing it is blessed yet quite rare. It is dependent upon their mood, their feelings, their physical condition, and the weather. The rain or thick fog outside, the lack of sleep and the intense pain, seem to affect their mood and blur their vision so they do not realize His presence. There is, however, something even better than realizing, and even more blessed. It is completely independent of these other conditions and is something that will abide with you. It is this: recognizing that unseen presence, which is so wonderful, quieting, soothing, calming, and warming. So recognize the presence of the Master. He is here, close to you, and His presence is real. Recognizing will also help your ability to realize but is never dependent upon it. Yes, there is immeasurably more—the truth is a presence, not a thing, a fact, or a statement. Some One is present, and He is a warmhearted Friend and the all-powerful Lord. This is a joyful truth for weeping hearts everywhere, no matter the reason for the tears, or whatever stream their weeping willow is planted beside. Samuel Dickey Gordon

Hope It started out as snow, oh, big flakes floating softly, catching on my sweater, lacy on the edges of my sleeves. Snow covered the dust, softened the fences, soothe the parched lips of the land. And then it changed halfway between snow and rain, sleet, glazing the earth. Until at last it slipped into rain, light as mist. It was the kindest kind of rain that fell. Soft and then a little heavier, helping along what had already fallen into the hard-pan earth until it rained, steady as a good friend who walks beside you, not getting in your way, staying with you through a hard time. And because the rain came so patient and slow at first, and built up strength as the earth remembered how to yield, instead of washing off, the water slid in, into the dying ground and softened its stubborn pride, and eased it back toward life.

The seasons follow a pattern with the blazing, sweltering summer days and nights giving way to the monsoon. How can one bear the summer without the knowledge of dark clouds, heavy with soothing, cooling rain, gathering over the distant oceans, the wind herding them together like so many woolly creatures, their heads firmly in the direction of a parched land paradoxically laden with sweet, aromatic mangoes?

The wind howled and moaned pitifully. The rain beat ever louder against the old boat, and the waves outside hissed, whilst we, lying still in a close embrace, shivered still from the cold. This was indeed stern reality. I felt convinced that no dream, however monstrous, however unbearable, could ever have vied in oppressiveness with this crushing actuality. Natasha continued to talk softly, soothingly, kindly, as none but a woman can do. Her simple gentle words caused warm feelings to creep into my heart, and I felt it melting within me. A flood of tears poured down my cheeks, washing away the anger, the grief, the self-conceit, the evil that had accumulated in my heart in the course of that terrible night. Once more Natasha endeavoured to comfort me. “Do, not weep like that dear. Do stop crying. Please God, something will turn up. You will find another place. You will be all right soon”. Kisses, hot, caressing, and soothing mingled with her words. They were the very first kisses I had ever received from a woman; and they were the best. All those I received later were bought at much too high a price. “Come, come! Stop that noise; what a strange fellow you are. Tomorrow I will try and find you some work, if that’s what’s the matter.” The low, soft, persuasive whispers came wafted to me as though through a dream. Thus we remained in each other’s arms till daybreak. As soon as dawn appeared we crawled out from under the boat, and made our way towards the town. There we bid each other a warm farewell, and parted - never to meet, again; though for more than six months I searched for that sweet girl through all the slums of the town—the girl with whom I had spent an autumn night. If she is dead—the best thing that could have happened to her—may her soul rest in peace. If she is still alive, God grant her a quiet mind, and may she never realise her fall; for that would be only a cruel and futile suffering, and would serve no useful purpose in this world.

Daughters of Memory  There were three of them, always three, Sunbathing side by side on the beach, The sound of waves and children’s voices so soothing It was hard to stay awake.  When I woke, the sun was setting. The three friends knelt in a circle Taking turns to peek into a small mirror And comb their hair with the same comb.  Months later, I happened to see two of them Running in the rain after school, Ducking into a doorway with a pack of cigarettes And a glance at me in my new uniform.  In the end, there was just one girl left, Tall and beautiful, Making late rounds in a hospital ward, Past a row of beds, one of which was mine.

The rain can be rather soothing at times, maybe cause it seems to be the only thing that synchronizes well with my soul.

Consider this analogy. When it rains heavily, the water does not necessarily penetrate the earth. If the surface is dry and hard, the rain water floods the surface and runs off. But if it rains gradually for many days continuously, and the ground is moist, then the water seeps deep into the earth, which is good for cultivation and for life. Similarly in ourselves, we must moisten our muscles and nerves through the expansion and extension of the various asana. In this way, the stress that saturates the brain is diffused throughout the rest of the body, so the brain is rested and released from strain and the body releases its stress and strain through movement. Similarly, while doing the various types of pranayama the whole body is irrigated with energy. The nerves are soothed, the brain is calmed, the hardness and rigidity of the lungs are loosened. The nerves are made to remain healthy. There is a certain vibration, which you can make rhythmic and subtler in your asana and pranayama practice without force or stress. You are one with yourself and that is in and of itself a meditative state.

With tinny drumbeats, the rain pounds the roof My teary eyes compete They can't keep up Breathe Let it go Breathe The vice on my chest tightens its razoring grip I gasp No relief If only tears could soothe the pain Then, I would look upon the tidal waves against these walls without fear Crush and roll me, I'd plead, Mold my body anew But with these tears come no healing, Just death, slow and determined This old girl, this old woman, this old soul lives here inside A tortoise outgrowing this hare's body This youthful skin encasing a crumbling frame I smooth the matted web of curls off my sweaty neck And roll my eyes at the clock How slowly the time squeaks by here in this room, In this comfortless bed I abandon the warmth from under my blanket tower and shiver The draft rattles my spine One by one, striking my vertebrae Like a spoon chiming empty wine glasses, Hitting the same fragile note till my neck shakes the chill away I swipe along the naked floor with a toe for the slippers beneath the bed Plush fabric caresses my feet Stand! Get up With both hands, Gravity jerks me back down Ugh! This cursed bed! No more, I want no more of it I try again My legs quiver in search of my former strength Come on, old girl, Come on, old woman, Come on, old soul, Don't quit now The floor shakes beneath me, Hoping I trip and fall To the living room window, I trudge My joints grind like gravel under tires More pain no amount of tears can soothe away Pinching the embroidered curtain between my knuckles, I find solace in the gloom The wind humming against the window, Makes the house creak and groan Years ago, the cold numbed my pain But can it numb me again, This wretched body and fractured soul? Outside I venture with chants fluttering my lips, Desperate solemn pleas For comfort, For mercy For ease, For health I open the plush throw spiraled around my shoulders And tiptoe around the porch's rain-soaked boards The chilly air moves through me like Death on a mission, My body, an empty gorge with no barriers to stop him, No flesh or bone My highest and lowest extremities grow numb But my feeble knees and crippling bones turn half-stone, half-bone Half-alive, half-dead No better, just worse The merciless wind freezes my tears My chin tumbles in despair I cover myself and sniffle Earth’s scent funnels up my nose: Decay with traces of life in its perfume The treetops and their slender branches sway, Defying the bitter gusts As I turn to seek shelter, the last browned leaf breaks away It drifts, it floats At the weary tree’s feet, it makes its bed alongside the others Like a pile of corpses, they lie Furled and crinkled with age No one mourns their death Or hurries to honor the fallen with thoughtful burials No rage-filled cries echo their protests at the paws trampling their fragile bodies, Or at the desecration by the animals seeking morning relief And new boundaries to mark Soon, the stark canopy stretching over the pitiful sight Will replace them with vibrant buds and leaves Until the wasting season again returns For now, more misery will barricade my bones as winter creeps in Unless Death meets me first to end it

I head straight to my suite, a set of rooms reminiscent of a British manor house library with tall mahogany bookshelves and a crackling fire. Even though the weather outside is furious and rain lashes the windows, I can take refuge here. More importantly, I can take tea, settle into a deep chair to read a book, and listen to overwrought operatic sopranos going to their graves, singing of doomed love. This recipe never fails to soothe me.

Because there is a growing belief among the community of thinking beings that by 2050 men and women will be marrying human like robots. At that point, how Craig Raine will describe his experiences will be fascinating to know. And in my imagination I have already travelled with the Green Man into the future called 2075 and witnessed How humans will experience love in 2075. Because this science fiction novel navigates through the possibility of men and women falling in love with machines, without knowing they are robots imitating human emotions. Will you still dare to fall in love in 2075 or will you strive to tell the difference between a human lover and a robotic lover? Now it is your turn to join the Green Man on this exciting journey into 2075, where he will reveal to you what the world would look like in 2075, and take you on an excitingly epic journey with the protagonist, Saabir, who criss crosses the highways and all by ways of emotional trajectory in the midst of synthetic emotions and feelings that engulf him. To know more, travel with the Green Man via the science fiction titled, They Loved in 2075. With this anticipation I shall dream of you tonight and hope that you will be able to unlock the alien imagination within you, to realise the part of you that is from Heaven. If you have any doubts, here is the poem by ​​Craig Raine to make you a dreamer who while asleep is always awake in his/her subconscious state too. Because he/she has learned the art of having a rendezvous with the light that radiates through the universe, to eventually settle in a dreamer's eyes who dares to dream beyond the ordinary and the 3 dimensional reality. "A Martian Sends A Postcard Home” Caxtons are mechanical birds with many wings and some are treasured for their markings-- they cause the eyes to melt or the body to shriek without pain. I have never seen one fly, but sometimes they perch on the hand. Mist is when the sky is tired of flight and rests its soft machine on the ground: then the world is dim and bookish like engravings under tissue paper Rain is when the earth is television. It has the properites of making colours darker. Model T is a room with the lock inside -- a key is turned to free the world for movement, so quick there is a film to watch for anything missed. But time is tied to the wrist or kept in a box, ticking with impatience. In homes, a haunted apparatus sleeps, that snores when you pick it up. If the ghost cries, they carry it to their lips and soothe it to sleep with sounds. And yet, they wake it up deliberately, by tickling with a finger. Only the young are allowed to suffer openly. Adults go to a punishment room with water but nothing to eat. They lock the door and suffer the noises alone. No one is exempt and everyone's pain has a different smell. At night, when all the colours die, they hide in pairs and read about themselves -- in colour, with their eyelids shut. Dedicated to you, the Green Man and Saabir who hails from 2075 and dares to love a real woman in 2075 because he loves her a lot!

I wonder for the first time, with a sharply caught breath, if I did love Peeta then. If the grief that poured out of me during his Games had been the outcry of a breaking heart, rendered powerless to prevent her beloved's pain. If I agreed to his bargain not simply to save my family but because my heart desperately wanted to live in the glow of his. If the kiss I clumsily pressed to his cheek after the Reaping – the kiss that sent me sprinting back to the woods to burrow among the roots of an old tree and cry myself sick – had nothing to do with debt or gratitude and everything to do with love and loss. I wonder if I've loved him since that moment under the apple tree when a boy with a bruised cheek threw burnt bread and life to a dying girl. A girl who grew and thrived because of that boy and that bread, who wished for five years that she could have soothed his cruel bruise with a kiss. Was that why I kissed him after the Reaping? Had I been carrying that clumsy kiss inside of me all that while? Had Peeta brought life to my heart as well as my body that hopeless day in the rain? Have I ever not loved him? I shake away these troubling thoughts with a shiver that reaches to my bones. My love for Peeta is fresh and fragile as a hatchling, I'm sure of it; kindled by his compassion and coaxed into its present brave blaze by the tenderness he shows me at every moment. It's foolish and futile to wonder whether I might have loved him before coming here, let alone when that love might first have flickered into existence. I am a wild creature, devoted to the boy who tamed me with warmth and food and gentle touches, and I accordingly express that love with woodland gifts. Like a courting bird in an old tale, bringing her sweetheart all manner of odd little presents to feather his nest.

Longing The stories of our lives like the rains... an endless drizzling, creating new alphabets, new chorus…. each raindrop, falling in soothing rhythm, the ups and the downs, like a beautiful dance… of resisting and giving in, of grasping and releasing, of dissolving and merging, of holding each moment like the longing of a newborn raindrop, to last forever, between awake and asleep. Breath Happiness slips through grip, like the thinnest sand, on the beach of life, leaving only barbed memories, in a never-ending spiral.

I’m terrified of bees, even though I’ve never been stung. I have this irrational thought that I’d be highly allergic to them. Strawberries make me itch. I think spring is the best season because things start returning to life. If I could live anywhere else, I’d live in Seattle because rain soothes me. I lose my keys regularly, and most of the time, they are right in my back pocket. I hate mean people and love squirrels.

Wings of fire It was a strange sight, That brought feelings of excitement and fright, A butterfly with wings of fire, One representing wishes and the other meant to hoist her every desire, There seemed to be no place where she could not go, I had never seen her before, not even long ago, Wherever she went, she set all flowers on fire, Creating blazing gardens of endless desire, Where wishes like pollen dust scattered everywhere, Lifted by the ever rising flames and then dispersed here and there, And wherever it fell, There was no beauty to be felt and no stories to tell, Because the flames turned the dust into a secret alchemy that resembled the inferno of hell, Gardens burned, lands were parched, it was a diabolic sight that no words can explain well, So, wherever the butterfly with wings of fire went, It left trails of fire and devastation, with nature’s will broken and completely bent, The butterfly used to be beautiful once, It loved to fly and freely dance, Until it was caught in a man made drought, Leaving it exhausted and distraught, As its wings stiffened and fell, And it began collapsing into the hell, There somehow she developed wings of fire, To claim her unfulfilled wishes and her every desire, And since then she has been on a rampage, Nature too does not want to contain her in the cage, Because she is avenging its losses, So, now she recklessly all heights and every length crosses, Wherever she goes the world of blazes and fires blooms, With just one prospect, that of gloom and endless dooms, Her desires are infinite, so her wings will never lose their fire now, There is only one way to stop her, via a kiss of love, But who would dare to kiss the wings of fire, Let alone the act, the very thought does scare and tire, Maybe the world, her world and our world will soon be reduced to cinders, And we can only hope that someday she forgives us all, her offenders, But behold the act of providence, Her only means of guidance, The wet drops of rain are soothing her hot and blazing wings, And as her wings regain their natural and colourful shades, she once again sings, Hopefully this spell of beauty lasts longer, And humans and beautiful butterflies will once again learn to live together!

Do you rememberin’ Assumption, Calixta?” he asked in a low voice broken by passion. Oh! she remembered; for in Assumption he had kissed her and kissed and kissed her; until his senses would well nigh fail, and to save her he would resort to a desperate flight. If she was not an immaculate dove in those days, she was still inviolate; a passionate creature whose very defenselessness had made her defense, against which his honor forbade him to prevail. Now well, now her lips seemed in a manner free to be tasted, as well as her round, white throat and her whiter breasts. They did not heed the crashing torrents, and the roar of the elements made her laugh as she lay in his arms. She was a revelation in that dim, mysterious chamber; as white as the couch she lay upon. Her firm, elastic flesh that was knowing for the first time its birthright, was like a creamy lily that the sun invites to contribute its breath and perfume to the undying life of the world. The generous abundance of her passion, without guile or trickery, was like a white flame which penetrated and found response in depths of his own sensuous nature that had never yet been reached. When he touched her breasts they gave themselves up in quivering ecstasy, inviting his lips. Her mouth was a fountain of delight. And when he possessed her, they seemed to swoon together at the very borderland of life’s mystery. He stayed cushioned upon her, breathless, dazed, enervated, with his heart beating like a hammer upon her. With one hand she clasped his head, her lips lightly touching his forehead. The other hand stroked with a soothing rhythm his muscular shoulders. The growl of the thunder was distant and passing away. The rain beat softly upon the shingles, inviting them to drowsiness and sleep. But they dared not yield.

here I will give you thunder shatter your hearts with rain let snow soothe you make your healing water clear sweet a sacred spring where the thirsty may drink animals all

Storms haven't bothered me in a long time. In fact, I find the thunder soothing with the way it rumbles through the sky, sprinkled with flashes of light while rain pelts against everything it touches. It's nice to know that even Mother Nature unleashes her wrath on anything and everything without regard to who gets hurt when they're in her torrential path.

Echoes of the Heart"** In a world that's loud and busy, Sometimes words cut through so easy, A whisper can break a heart in two, It's the little things that we say and do. Sometimes even the smallest of words, Can be the ones to hurt you, But let's fill our days with kindness, And watch how love can surely bloom. We're all walking our own journey, With burdens that we carry, A little respect goes a long way, Let's lift each other up every day. Respect for others, a touch of grace, A little more common decency, It's one of the simplest things, You can teach someone, watch their spirit dance and sing. Words are like the wind on the plains, They can soothe or they can bring the rain, Let's choose them with a cowboy's care, Speak with love, as if it's a prayer. In the echoes of the heart, let's find, A melody that's sweet and kind, Teach the young ones as they grow, Decency's the seed we ought to sow.

In a world where hearts entwine, A love story, sweet and divine. In the gentle drizzle, we find, Affection's touch, in love, we're twined. Above, clouds tenderly pair, Sharing soft embraces in the air. Waltz with me in the rain, No words are needed to explain. Once our worlds collided, fate in play, A rare connection, sweetness to stay. Your love, a caress so light, Healing wounds in soothing night. In emotions' dance, uncertain ground, In your awareness, solace found. Lost in time, a bit astray, Let your voice guide my way. A wanderer in love's vastness, On love's shelf, in sweet distress. Hold me close in pure light, Guard my heart through the night. In your gaze, my forever lies, Journey or destination, love defies. Guide me, love, console my soul, In raindrops, our love takes its toll. Clouds heavy with grace, Pour affection in this space. Dance with me, embrace the weather, Our love endures, forever. Our worlds blended in the rain, A serendipitous union, love's sweet gain. Your touch, an artistry healing, A "marham" on my heart, revealing.

A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day. ‘The Day is Done

The winter solstice marks the longest night of the year and the promise that soon the sun will be back again. But winter is not merely a trial to be got through while we wait for warmer times. You must embrace the cold days and long dark nights and learn to find the joy in them, for there is much joy to be found. Hunker down and revel in the warmth of soft blankets when the weather is howling outside. Make the time to take time, not just for others but for yourselves. Read books, light candles, take long baths, watch the flames flickering in the fireplace or the rain dribbling down the windowpanes. Open your eyes to the beauty in the winter landscape and count your blessings every single day. Slow down. There will be time enough for buzzing around with the bees when the sun comes back. For now, let the moments stretch long and lazy. Recuperate, rejuvenate, reflect, and let winter soothe you. Let this winter solstice be the first of many times this winter that you come together to give thanks and appreciate the people in your life. Gratitude is everything. It is infinite, and even in death I know that the warmth of my gratitude for all of you lives on in the spirit of this season." -Augustus

We Cannot know what is around the bend. It could be sorrow or joy, riches or poverty, health or infirmity. But we can trust that contentment can be ours regardless of circumstance. The Father's heavenly storehouses are full of His comfort, and He promises to rain it down upon the earthbound souls who ask for it. You have felt such sweet drops of relief before, a honeyed embrace of the divine to soothe your weary body of dust. When trouble comes, ask for this meeting of heaven up on the earth. The One who commands both realms, who carves the paths of the rivers and gives light to the stars, will lead us in the way we should go and shine a lamp unto our feet. It is a promise to us who trustingly call "Abba!" "In the fear of the Lord is strong confidence: and His children shall have a place of refuge" (Proverbs 14:26)

INTO THE CREVICE   Passed the hanging clematis vines and into a cavernous gap tucked away behind the thundering falls, I hold her close to me as we inch into the crevice, following her from behind to be sure that her step is careful as she makes her way into the cavity behind the falls. Sheltered from inside of the falling water where the shadowy enclosure echoes an eternal rain we are now embraced by all that is soothing and utterly serene.   She warms herself between me and the fibers that allow no warmth to escape through as her and I become naked and warm between the wool and the fur. I gaze into the windows of her soul, she being anxious to share with me the experience and pleasure of being wherever I am. Her eyes look to me telling me that it was always me and that there is no place she would rather be than with me in this present moment. Feeling our warmth converge into one another she gives in to her need to love, turning to kiss me once again, her shivers beginning to dissipate between the coverings and her love for me as the susurrous roar above our heads silences our endless cry for love.

The rain spattered against the window in a wind-driven sheet, and he dropped his forehead to her shoulder. “Sleep with me tonight,” he said, “or let me sleep with you.” “You know we cannot.” “Just sleep, Emmie. I will not bother you.” In the dark, she could not read his expression, but she did know he was ripe for another setback. He wasn’t sleeping in his bed, it was after midnight, and his memories were tormenting him. “I will scream the house down if you misbehave, and I will not let you seduce me.” It was a terrible idea—almost as terrible as the thought of not seeing him for weeks, not hearing him banter with Lord Amery, not watching as he slowly coaxed Winnie into a semblance of civilized behavior. It was a terrible idea, for she could not think of refusing him. “Tonight, Emmie love, I could not seduce my own right hand. I’ve already tried.” She shot him a puzzled look but kept her questions to herself. “Take me upstairs, Emmie.” He rose and drew her to her feet. “Please.” She made no reply, just took his hand, picked up her candle, and led him to her bedroom. While she finished braiding her hair, he locked the door then undressed, washed, and climbed under her covers. When her fingers hesitated at the ties of her nightgown, he met her gaze. “It’s up to you. Sleep however you are comfortable.” She blew out the candle before taking off her clothes and climbing in beside him. “You will sleep?” she asked, her voice hesitant in the darkness. “Eventually,” he replied, pushing her gently to her side, “and so will you.” He trailed his fingers over her shoulder blades then down her spine. “Relax, Emmie. I’ve given my word I will behave, and I would not lie to you.” She sighed and gave herself up to the pleasure of having her back rubbed and then, only moments later, to the pleasure of slumber. “Better,” he murmured, content just to touch her. The smooth, fragrant expanse of her flesh under his hands soothed him, distracted him from the rain and the rain scents coming in the windows. Her breathing evened out, and the tension in her body eased. Slowly, so as not to disturb her, he curved his naked body around hers and slipped a hand around her waist. She sighed again and snuggled back against his chest, then laced her fingers through his. He felt himself drifting into sleep, Emmie’s hand in his, her warmth against his heart, her fragrance blotting out the memories that had denied him sleep. Peace. Finally, finally, I have experienced that thing referred to as peace. ***

That's the experience I've gained from working in the garden: there's no reason to be cautious or anxious about anything, life is so robust, it seems to come cascading, blind and green, and at times it is frightening, because we too are alive, but we live in what amounts to a controlled environment, which makes us fear whatever is blind, wild, chaotic, stretching towards the sun, but most often also beautiful, in a deeper way than the purely visual, for the soil smells of rot and darkness, teems with scuttling beetles and convulsing worms, the flower stalks are juicy, their petals brim with scents, and the air, cold and sharp, warm and humid, filled with sunrays or rain, lies against the kin, accustomed to the indoors, like a soothing compress of hereness.

Everyone in my family loves novels,” Poppy finally said, pushing the conversation back into line. “We gather in the parlor nearly every evening, and one of us reads aloud. Win is the best at it—she invents a different voice for each character.” “I’d like to hear you read,” Harry said. Poppy shook her head. “I’m not half as entertaining as Win. I put everyone to sleep.” “Yes,” Harry said. “You have the voice of a scholar’s daughter.” Before she could take offense, he added, “Soothing. Never grates. Soft . . .” He was extraordinarily tired, she realized. So much that even the effort to string words together was defeating him. “I should go,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. “Finish your sandwiches first,” Poppy said authoritatively. He picked up a sandwich obediently. While he ate, Poppy paged through the book until she found what she wanted . . . a description of walking through the countryside, under skies filled with fleecy clouds, past almond trees in blossom and white campion nestled beside quiet brooks. She read in a measured tone, occasionally stealing a glance at Harry while he polished off the entire plate of sandwiches. And then he settled deeper into the corner, more relaxed than she had ever seen him. She read a few pages more, about walking past hedges and meadows, through a wood dressed with a counterpane of fallen leaves, while soft pale sunshine gave way to a quiet rain . . . And when she finally reached the end of the chapter, she looked at Harry once more. He was asleep. His chest rose and fell in an even rhythm, his long lashes fanned against his skin. One hand was palm down against his chest, while the other lay half open at his side, the strong fingers partially curled. “Never fails,” Poppy murmured with a private grin.

now and, smiling, stuck his hand over the top to shake mine. ‘Can I help you?’ he said, in an English accent. Here in the middle of nowhere, France. At that precise moment the rain stopped, just like that. A beam from the setting sun broke through the dull heavy clouds; I felt bathed in a ray of glowing sunlight. At the bottom of the mucky hill, ducks in someone’s garden started quacking, the joyous clamour echoing around the valley like laughter. Somewhere close by I heard a sheep baa gently –it was like a welcome. The rhythmic, melodious and soothing sound of distant church bells pealed. It sounded like fate. ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘We’ve been given these house details by an estate agent in Hesdin and we just thought we’d have a drive by and a quick peek.’ ‘Blimey, we only put it on the market yesterday,’ spluttered the man. ‘It’s not been dressed up or anything. In fact, my daughter who lives here hasn’t even cleaned it and I’ve just popped in to mop up the leaks and make sure the wind hasn’t blown the doors off.’ I heard my dad sniggering behind me.

That was readily apparent on occasions such as the night when one of the twins had accidentally stumbled over Beatrix’s cat Lucky, who had let out the particular earsplitting screech of an irritated feline. And then both the twins started squalling, while Catherine had rushed to soothe them. Christopher had nearly jumped out of his skin. The uproar had sent a shock through him, leaving him tense and trembling, and he had lowered his head and squeezed his eyes shut as he was transported in an instant to a battlefield beneath an exploding sky. A few deep breaths, and then he had become aware of Beatrix sitting beside him. She didn’t question him, only stayed quiet and near. And then Albert had come and put his chin on his knee, regarding him with somber brown eyes. “He understands,” Beatrix had said softly. Christopher reached out to pet the rough head, and Albert nuzzled into his hand, a tongue curling against his wrist. Yes, Albert understood. He had suffered beneath the same rain of shells and cannonfire, knew the feeling of a bullet tearing through his flesh. “We’re a pair, aren’t we, old fellow?” Christopher had murmured.

Tokyo is so vast, and can be so cruelly impersonal, that the succor provided by its occasional oasis is sweeter than that of any other place I’ve known. There is the quiet of shrines like Hikawa, inducing a somber sort of reflection that for me has always been the same pitch as the reverberation of a temple chime; the solace of tiny nomiya, neighborhood watering holes, with only two or perhaps four seats facing a bar less than half the length of a door, presided over by an ageless mama-san, who can be soothing or stern, depending on the needs of her customer, an arrangement that dispenses more comfort and understanding than any psychiatrist’s couch; the strangely anonymous camaraderie of yatai and tachinomi, the outdoor eating stalls that serve beer in large mugs and grilled food on skewers, stalls that sprout like wild mushrooms on dark corners and in the shadows of elevated train tracks, the laughter of their patrons diffusing into the night air like little pockets of light against the darkness without.

I was never fond of the rain but I enjoyed the soothing sounds it made while crashing onto the ground,but rain crashing onto bare skin I was not fond of.

When I heard Toni’s calm soothing tone, I said, “Aha! Your words are telling me you understand, but your tone is telling me to calm down. There is nothing so infuriating as being told to calm down when you’re angry.” Sarah, another mom in the group, immediately agreed. “Those are two words my husband is never allowed to say to me. If he dares, I will rip his head off!” “Imagine this. You call me and say, ‘What a horrible day. The kids were totally hyper and it was pouring rain

Even in darkness, if you close your eyes and try to walk, a serenade of light guides you. And it is not just blank philosophy, it's absolutely true and something that we actually know in the deepest corner of our heart, if only our minds let us look deep enough. And at this time when the world is seeped in a cloud of uncertainty, a shade of darkness that is so dense that an unknown fear clutch us and we fall deep inside that pit of fire, I hope we do not forget that often fire is the most potent element in this Earth to purify us, and even from the ashes one can rise provided we hold on to that Hope, that is the very wings of Faith. This time, this quarantine as they call it, or this Solitude as I call it is making us realize so much and each time I come across a post breathing with life be it music, art, introspective words, I know that this time is letting some of us sink deep in the realm of spiritual growth, even if the outer countenance of that is limited to a shape. The paintings, the songs, the dance and act performances, the cooking dishes, the motivating words, the happiness of spending time with family, the mirth and laughter, even in the frugalities showing the battles of survival, and actually in every littlest post, all I can see is how everyone is getting hold of their inner light and delving into something that gives them the fuel to this light. Sometimes a wreck of clouds bring in a burst of rainfall that perhaps had been long due and yet a silver lining often lurks around as a surprising gift of that grey canopy of clouds. The rain might jolt on the fields of harvest but brings in the promise of a better harvest, and soothes the earth with the harmony of tranquil serenity. The sky shines with a rainbow that we embrace in our hearts through that belief in our abilities and the joy of love, the complete invincible love for ourselves with each and every particle of our soul, and there we rise in compassion and shine in gratitude. I believe, I always believe that anything that we practice often, again and again and yet again, becomes a part of us and sometimes all of us. And perhaps the best practice that we can all indulge in at the moment is the practice of mindfulness, of knowing what truly we want not what we are programmed to want but what lies deep dormant in the innermost vicinity of our hearts where we as souls reside because once we know that, we would know how silence speaks in the sharpest tongue beckoning us again and again onto the path of love, where a serenade of light leads us even through the darkest of gloom.

Tea & Toast by Stewart Stafford Let me stop in this lay-by a moment, That I have tagged - Tea & Toast, A shimmering oasis frequented often, A soothing elixir one loves the most. It's as comforting as a warm bath, Enjoyed even when wracked with pain, As welcome as an old friend's smile, On thundery days of lashing rain. No matter if the tea is too sweet or burns, Greasy butter hijacked by sandpaper crumbs, There shall be no Boston Tea Party here, Our minuscule parole from routine doldrums. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.

It’s raining outside, and the rush of water is a million murmuring voices, cajoling, soothing, warning, impatient. Get moving, they say.

Unless you stop to ask what "coincidence" means. I think it means two incidents are associated: co-incidence: coordination of incidents. So, then, to explain two associated incidents (prayers for rain followed by rain) by saying "coincidence" is to say that the two incidents were associated because the two incidents were associated. That may be soothing enough, but it is hardly analytical.

through mine, and I rested my head on her shoulder. “There, there,” she soothed. Tears rained unhindered down my face. The pallbearers lowered the casket onto a metal stand, then moved

So, are you going to come to a swim practice, put a smile on Hal’s face?” Lily shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. I’ll make time to visit Hal this week, but I prefer ocean swimming these days.” Sean looked out at the pouring rain. “In this muck?” His smile turned knowing. “Oh, right. I see.” “What? What are you talking about?” “Why you don’t want to come. It’d be embarrassing to swim with your old coach if you’re no longer . . .” He let the sentence trail off. “I’m just as fast as I used to be,” she retorted. “Hey, it’s okay, really,” he said in a soothing tone, one that he knew would infuriate her. He was, after all, blessed with a true talent when it came to pissing off Lily. “Lots of swimmers lose their edge—” “What time’s practice?” she demanded curtly. The annoyed glint in her crystalline eyes told Sean all he needed. He had her. “Eight to ten, every night,” he informed her easily. “So, you’ll come?” Lips pursed, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer, Lily swept past him, regal as a queen under a drenching rain. With a grin Sean called after her, “See you later tonight, Lily.

Steven didn’t speak again, didn’t try to erase what she was feeling. Instead, he found a comb in her handbag, knelt behind her, and gently began working the tangles out of her hair. “Maybe the women of Whitneyville are right about me,” she muttered in genuine despair, and daisy petals fell like rain around her as Steven continued to comb her hair. “They might be right about some things,” Steven answered gently. “But they’re dead wrong about you.” There was something soothing in the feel of his hands in her hair, even though the pulling of the comb hurt now and then.

I ran my fingers over the silverskin on my head. It had begun to generate electrical impulses similar to those of real nerves, so I could feel a light tapping where my touch was. It was soothing, like standing under the warm rain of Pitha. “Quit it, Plate Head,” Teka said. “You’re drawing attention.

A car horn startled her, and she knew if she lived here the rest of her life, she'd never get used to the busyness of town life, how something was always coming and going and whatever that something was always had a noise. Not soothing like the sound of a creek or rain on a tin roof or a mourning dove's call, but harsh and grating, no pattern to it, nothing to settle the mind upon. Except in the early morning, those moments before the city waked with all its grime and noise. She could look out the window at the mountains, and their stillness settled inside her like a healing balm

Hover through the Fog and Filthy Air Nursery school for demons Getting to know yourself through crime Brain music like a wounded ambulance praying in tongues Telepathic merchandise A rhapsodic interrogation of love Another haunted customer Soothing you to sleep and infesting your dreams with mechanical tarantulas Carnivorous mirage The night that hides inside the night you know The night that knows you The fierce bliss of the holy glint The lethal myth you carried all your life The voice within my voice the only one I listen to was never born Sometimes everything’s my child Emotions are deployed in glassy air Lots of wondering what to do in the empty lobby and the all night laundromat The diamond swimming in the noisy light A little origami holy ghost The rain goes on softly not wanting to know my side of the story Bloodstreams running with whispering stars A loose confederation of feral children without human language living in ruined cathedrals on the moon pledging allegiance to the buildings and how they appear the grey noise of the interstate new understandings of madness and terrible love half buried in leaves The trapeze artist of the abyss Her discipline Her ascetic silhouette The way we never see her face no matter how she twists

Any spring can be remembered and no matter where you are, April is a beautiful month. Barbed wire can fence you in but it can’t stop your senses from reaching out and grabbing the pleasures of spring. The warmth that comes with the soothing gentleness of the rain splashing a captive man’s face as he watches it turn the last bit of winter snow and slush back to water is equalled only by the sight of annual wonderment of the earth swelling and releasing tiny sprouts and tender plants from their winter slumber and let them grow tall and green again, even in the time of war. Much of the beauty of the sweet smel l of the season is marred by the thought that your spring fever is merely the intensification of your fever to live…The warm sunshine strengthens your anticipation for a new life as you know the frozen wheels of the war machine will thaw, the fog bound skies will clear, and with the death of winter the warming ground will soon be firm and fit to carry on a better war. So, let the grass grow green and the vision of being free, grow with it.

There was something soothing about music, an escape that the rest of the world didn’t offer her.

Flowers Born to Fill the Dessert Air! They thought The flower was Born to Blush unseen. And waste its Sweetness In the Dessert air. But the Destiny of The flower Unknown to them. Was A different story, To be known In time. The rains Poured down And the Dessert bloomed. Bringing Travelers from Far and wide. To walk through The dessert, Now Full of flowers. To sooth The tired souls, To inhale the Pure sweetness And, to see the Beautiful flower Blushing, In the sweet dessert air!