Snowing Rain

Surrounded by rain, surrounded by Love
Rain
I sit listening to the soft yet constant pattering of rain on the roof, bathing in the gray afternoon light of Seattle in December. Raindrops shift to snowflakes back to rain this whole day. A day of pause for me, having barely made it home for Christmas. Mechanical problems on the plane in Istanbul caused an unexpected stop in London, where we ended up spending the night. Our consequential missed flight connections caused another night's stay in New York. Two angels dressed up in Delta shirts booked me a flight to "San Francisco" via Seattle (and then Salt Lake City) in order to get me home on time. (Rules are that any rebooking of flights must be to the same destination of the orignial ticket (which was SFO). I was originally going to have a day to rest and repack and then fly to Seattle from Oakland, but I had let go of this plan in London).
Snow
Maybe it's because I am partly sick and recovering from jet lag, but part of me wasn't ready for Christmas. After barely making it home, and returning from a fairly intense journey, it felt strange to be whisked up and pushed along with all of the Christmas traditions and gatherings and people and services. Whoah! Hold on! I'm not ready for schedules and outings and presents and traditions. I just want to sit here, with laughter and stories, until the sounds of hearth's drums lull us to sleep. I just want to bask in the presence of my beloved, spirit touching spirit, with silence our embrace.
The snow is melting from the roads and tree boughs. People return to their cars, scattering slush off the side of the streets. I want this unusual weather to stay a little longer. Freeze this moment- in between venture and return- a few more days. Put a frozen sanctuary around time and just cherish. Cherish before do. Cherish before act.
Snowing Harder
I am surrounded by water, surrounded by Love
The trip gradually allows for my reflection. I think of my homeward bound traveling companions and the ways in which we each fell apart and found strength and even offered others a pillar on which to lean. How Perry, when hearing the announcement of our unexpected landing in London, sensed the deep fear of his airplane row companion. Recognizing the words uttered beneath her breath, he joined her in saying Al Fatiha, the Islamic prayer spoken before each Call to Prayer. How we looked after one another, still sensing the continued pilgrimage we were on. How, in a jet of almost 300 people, we said goodbye to the strangers-no-longer with whom we had shared anxiety and gratitude over the last two days.
What else longs for my remembrance?
Ah, the food! The savory olives doused in olive oil, and the abundant and colorful cheeses! Lentil soup and the piles and piles of bread...
The Call to Prayer on loud speaker sounding out over the gorgeous city of Istanbul.
Remembering perhaps most sorely, the melodies of the Elijas and Sufi chants that keep bubbling up into my throat.
And the zickurs- perhaps the memory furthest from my life here. The risk of entering, with others, into song and chant and rhythm and prayer.
The Dervish Brother's House filled with warm rugs and even warmer hospitality.
And, of course, the precious souls who guided our journey- Ismael Baba, Duja Hanim, Katherin Hanim, Issa Baba, and Ibrahim Baba.
Holding these memories is like sweet honey to my soul.