The Wheat and The Rain
My favorite thing to do is take a walk.
A quiet stroll by myself.
There’s something so foundational, so deeply energizing, about walking in silence through nature.
It becomes even more essential after a period of stress, exhaustion, or depletion.
Whenever I truly crave solitude and quiet, I always leave my phone at home.
No distractions.
Just me and the earth.
Vincent Van Gogh’s Wheatfield with Crows
I’m old enough to remember life without a cell phone,
without constant technology humming and distracting me in the background.
Many times, I think back to those days.
I remember stepping out my front door and losing myself in nature for hours on end.
No one could contact me.
I was never distracted.
I never carried a list of things to stress about.
Depression or anxiety never touched me out there.
I was never bored.
Never restless.
I miss that feeling.
Disconnected, yet free.
The privacy of sitting alone in peaceful communion with the world around me.
Now, with technology always present,
those memories of freedom, of quiet walks,
of the profound oneness that solitude brings,
feel like a dream from another life I long for.
And so, sometimes, I leave my phone at home.
I walk out my front door like I used to,
just to admire the world around me.
My mind drifts to the image of barley fields.
Van Gogh’s Wheatfield with Crows rises vividly in my thoughts.
That painting doesn’t just capture a landscape.
When I look at it, I imagine I’m standing there.
On the dirt road.
Walking beside golden wheat fields.
I feel the rush of wind ahead of an approaching storm.
Moisture builds in the air, thick and electric.
Clouds gather overhead, heavy with the promise of rain.
The sharp, earthy scent fills my lungs.
I watch the crows take flight,
seeking shelter from the impending downpour.
I love storms.
Their energy.
Their presence.
Lightning fills me with awe.
Its raw power—a miraculous connection between earth and sky.
The rumbling boom of thunder reverberates in my chest.
Storms are a bridge.
A dialogue between heaven and earth.
Without them, the foundation of life as we know it would cease to exist.
We owe so much to the humble rain.
It nourishes.
Replenishes.
Restores.
After weeks of heat, exhaustion, and consumption,
the fields cry for the blessing of rain.
And when it comes, life is renewed.
Thinking of rain reminds me of a story my mother told.
About her childhood in the farmlands of South Dakota.
She spoke of the anxiety that hovered over everyone during harvest season.
Dry days stretched on endlessly.
Each morning, they scanned the horizon, waiting.
Waiting for the rain to arrive.
Weather forecasts were daily conversations.
A shared, collective hope.
Would the rain come in time?
Would they grow enough to sustain their homes?
Their livelihoods?
Their survival depended on the land.
And the land depended on the heavens.
In those dry, expansive flatlands,
rain wasn’t just a necessity.
It was a blessing.
A relief.
A promise of peace.
On late summer afternoons,
the rain feels like a gentle embrace.
It soothes.
It nourishes.
The rhythmic pitter-patter, pitter-patter, pitter-patter of droplets drowns out my thoughts.
Back in the wheat fields,
the storm grows closer.
The air hums with tension.
The crows are gone, all but one or two.
I know I must end my walk if I want to stay dry.
The rainstorm feels like permission to rest.
Sleepily, I crawl into bed with a book.
The soft glow of the storm fills my room.
The storm becomes a cradle,
rocking me into its steady embrace.
When I wake, I feel replenished.
Nourished.
Deeply reconnected to the earth.
These peaceful walks,
these moments of solitude,
bring me back to myself.
They remind me of life’s cycles.
The eternal rhythm of connection between the earth and the heart.