A desert flowers after long-awaited rain.

A retired Peruvian miner stands in the desert regarding the floral phenomenon with his wife. Looking over the endless sea of colourful blooms he sheds the only tear he will ever shed in his adult life. The teardrop evaporates on contact with the old man’s steal capped boot.

Widow-black sky, grieving, miserable, drunk on sorrow hung in wait above the parched and brittle land. During the night watch, a flotilla of heavily pregnant, slightly incontinent rain clouds had blown in on a westerly breeze. A single raindrop seeped out and began its odyssey towards the earth far below.

‘What sort of raindrop am I?’ he thought.

Before his descent, raindrop had been part of a collective consciousness known as ‘cloud’ with no autonomy of his own – lots of smaller droplets that, for whatever reason, felt attracted to one another.

‘Ah the birds and the bees,’ muttered the wind as she gently wafted our raindrop eastward.

He fancied he was probably of the brave and fearless variety and as the sun broke the night with a strange sepia glow he thought he might also be ambitious. After all he had been the first drop to fall; yes he was undoubtedly the heaviest that went without question, but ambition played its part too, surely. Perhaps his character owed a debt to one or more of his component parts, the smaller droplets that had made their way up from the evaporating waters far away to help make cloud to begin with?

Yes, thought the drop of rain. Yes, he came from good stock, pure H2O with no artificial additives or flavourings. Not like some other drops he could mention with their performance-enhancing chemicals or corrosive acidic value; too many hydrogen ions for his liking. No, he was pure unadulterated, top of the range, life-giving water.

Below him in the early morning light a vallenar toad crawled out from its once brimming pond and inspected the sky. One drop would be good; a downpour would be better. It had been a while since rain had been seen in this arid landscape. In fact, the toad hadn’t seen rain in his lifetime but had been left instructions by his grandmother on what to expect and what to do when it did finally arrive.

He looked at the muddy hole in the desert floor where he’d grown up and wondered if he could ever bring a lady home to this hovel. Would a potential mate ever be impressed with tales of what it had once been? A virtual palace teaming with toads, his father, a most exemplary amphibian, had the pick of the knab. Oh yes his family had been well regarded and considered to be extremely hospitable. They were the backbone of the choral ensemble, lending gravitas to the baritone and indeed tenor sections. The choir that once sang here made sweet and seductive music filling the desert with sound, but now he sang alone.

Oh if only it could rain enough to fill his muddy hole with water life would soon follow. The desert fox himself might wander over and sample the miracle, and then perhaps others would follow making his pond the most popular watering hole in the land. Then of course he would have the problem of which lady toad to settle for.

He ventured a little further out into the dawn and peered up into the sky, but the sky had gone, replaced by a black mass tinged red by the rising sun. What was this anomaly: could it possibly be the rain cloud Grandmother had foreseen?

His grandmother had made a lot of predictions; rarely did any of them come true. She also reckoned that she could, through magic, cure warts! What a wart was or, indeed what it should be cured of, was a mystery to Toad. Grandmother imagined she could communicate with the dead too and did this whenever scorn was required,

‘Uncle Flaxin disapproves of your indulgence very much! The word ‘shame’ is teetering on the very tip of his long tongue.’

She could see the future by studying the movement of tadpoles and heal the sick with a combination of bizarre incantations and a peculiar trancelike dance consisting of hopping ridiculously on one leg. And yet, he had to admit that this dark presence looming above him matched her description of a rain cloud. Grandmother may not have been as mad as a box of armadillos after all.

Despite raindrop’s close affinity to his kin he wondered to himself as he fell,

‘If I do not own a sense of self, am I not an individual?’

Furthermore, wasn’t it possible that he could, despite his current trajectory make his own choices? He had to accept that there were powerful forces at work here – wind and gravity, for example, relieved him of certain decisions. Even so within these fixed parameters was he not a free spirit?

Of course it did occur to him that he didn’t exist at all and was nothing more than a figment of some deranged author’s imagination. But where would that lead him? He had to think in subjective terms otherwise what was the point?

When all was said and done, he didn’t see himself as a nihilist or a philosophical pessimist nor did he think, based on his short existence and what he had learned of himself, that he was an absurdist either. No, he believed that he had a destiny and once that destiny was fulfilled he would be reincarnated, but not before returning to cloud and belonging once more to the collective consciousness.

Yes all of existence was inexplicably linked; strange forces were at work here. It’s true that despite his intrinsic sense of connectedness, of being special in his own right and of belonging to a bigger picture, he had to admit that many questions would remain unanswered. That didn’t however make existence absurd or pointless or rob him of his feelings, his sensations and his thoughts. Was it not he, raindrop, and he alone that felt the wind move him in this way? It was his interpretation of warmth bestowed by the rising sun that mattered, how he experienced it and how life, however short, exhilarated his senses.

Raindrop, after being in existence for three seconds took a second to feel the moment, to live in the now, to merge with his environment, to feel at one with nature. He cleared his mind of all contemplation, reflection and projection and felt the beat of life radiating all around.

Below the raindrop, below the toad, deep in the ground a dormant seed dared to dream. Within the seed coat, tough and hard lay the embryonic plant, warm, safe and protected. The embryo stirred, fancied she felt moisture in the air above her. Oh could it be true? Should she allow herself hope? To think that her slumber may end, that her love would come and, with one kiss, soften her otherwise impenetrable shell. Perhaps one drop of rain, if he was big enough, pure enough and strong enough to penetrate the hard surface above, could find his way to her. Should one such drop of rain exist? Dare she hope that, as she laid here dormant and wanting, he was fighting against unimaginable resistance to find her? Battling with rivals, struggling against hindrance from wind and the inevitable evaporation of sun and friction?

‘Whoopeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!’ yelled the raindrop as he fell closer and closer to the ground. Above him his fellow drops poured from cloud, billions of drops all coming from the same mother, born into the same world, screaming towards their fate. Each drop connected and yet isolated by its own experience, its own understanding of the world, its own bubble. A bubble filled with questions, angst and insecurity; with meaning and fractured moments that together built an overall impression of consciousness and a life spent.

Now, as the end of the journey approached for our raindrop, Toad saw with his own eyes the coming downpour. His tiny toad heart leapt in his chest, this was a game-changer, this rain came with promise, this rain came with life! Toad hopped from the dried up hole he was born in to the desert floor and back, not knowing where to put himself, not having lived through such times as these before. Toad allowed himself to fancy he would actually meet a mate, have tadpoles of his own and grow fat well into his dotage.

Beneath the toad, lying dormant for so long the seed quivered with anticipation. She would be born again, rising from the ashes, her roots would dig deep and her flower would open to the sun and be beautiful to behold.

Raindrop reflected on his own existence and thought that this episode of consciousness was only a fraction of his journey. In truth the existence of consciousness was merely a vehicle that enabled one to make the transitional journey from collective realisation – belonging to the cloud – and feeding the planet with much needed nourishment. He would eventually be recycled, vaporised, condensed and turned back into a raindrop, not the same raindrop, another raindrop and so the story continues.

As for self? During the journey, despite the limitations nature will impose, you have the freedom to consider life, the universe and anything else. You have the freedom to love and be loved, to hope, to dream and to live in the moment whenever you wish. Life is a circle, know that, accept it and embrace it. You do your bit, make your contribution whether you like it or not and go from this blink-of-an-eye existence into the next phase of the journey. Crashing and thrashing as you go, no doubt, but go you will.

Millions of raindrops fell head-first onto the parched and brittle ground, each one shattering into hundreds of smaller water particles, making their way through cracks and canyons towards millions of dormant seeds lying in wait beneath the surface.

In a one hundred mile radius several vallenar lady toads instantly gave up on spinsterhood and set out to ‘knab’ themselves a man.

A desert flowers after long-awaited rain.

About CageWriter

Englishman Living in France with my wife and bilingual son. I'm a struggling writer as in I struggle to write even though I feel it's my calling. I get easily side tracked, this blog being a case in point!
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