Dancing in the rain, letting all the stale emotions run right off, run right off and fly out from the elbow nook, the tips of ones hair, there is nothing beyond this, all ceases to exist. The wild dance of utter delight, when wonder happens as there is nothing else in the pure present but this dance of water and soil. This welcoming of purification. An old man of medicine was asked once, how he made the rain come in the middle of the desert on a cloudless day. He laughed and laughed for the insistence of the question, but How, How? And finally he said, I am the rain. Rain that flies out of every hair tip even those small ones on the arms and legs, a rain that is here made in the shining of the sun, in the flow of the air, in the mass of the earth around this immense city and finally it is made in the dance of the child. What makes this memory of a long time ago different from the actor making rain now? Is it not just Done. It is just Being. Just be the rain, like a child, like a woman, nothing more than the lightness and power of the air, the burn and the sacrifice of itself in being the sun, the water that fills us all and the richness and majesty of earth.