My blanket lay at the edge of the edge of the beach, right where the sand turns to sparse grass—and the clouds, a high and milky white mess on a hazy blue background.
The forecast called 40% chance of rain today, but nothing looked imminent. I closed my eyes and the world around me started to dissolve. My senses heightened in their fading and hearing beyond the crowd to the surf, the waves blended into a monologue of eternal, blissful siesta.
A distant dog-bark echoed my direction long away through a gentle breeze. A pre-dreamy, drowsy calm invaded my physical being and time seemed a stand still—then it happened—I heard it. Like a bullet parsing through time-frozen air molecules, a shwooshing sound with the grace of a high-speed zipper in slow motion. Then, it hit me—a single rain drop on the inside of my forearm.
Wetting my stratum corneum, somatic receptors fire a signal through a thousand miles of road-map nerves at light speed, landing in my well mapped sensory cortex, eliciting a preconditioned response from an altogether, other part of my brain, the frontal cortex (which is unique to humans) Aah, god is good (from the memory banks of indoctrination—our belief)
“Beliefs originate from what we hear – and keep on hearing from others, ever since we were children“—Indian Journal of Medicine
I have no evidence it rained that day, but I felt it, I know it. The news said there was no precipitation, but I know—I even heard it gently censure me from near slumber.
This is exactly the evidence for god—because it was trained and ingrained. Did it rain and did I hear the drop coming, or in my hypnogogic, near-sleep state, did I dream it? My first response is proof something is off—I don’t even believe what still lingers from all those years, but like habits are—in the neurons like a ping-back from a children’s blog you quit enabling many years ago.
Springtime Oregon Grape. Mahonia aquifolium in juvenile yellow.