Rain Rain Don't Go Away by Kat Magendie

This is a simple yog. Simple and to the point. A simple thankfulness for what Father Sky gives to Mother Earth. Gives to this cove. Gives to Western North Carolina.

It is raining outside. A good rain. A rain that has been steady since sometime late last night.

I'd been watching the sky since yesterday morning. Watching fat black bloated clouds hover, blanketing my cove at Killian Knob. Watched the trees bend from the wind. Listened to the howl as that wind raced over the mountain ridges and down into the coves and hollows and valley.

But, nothing. No rain. Threatening, threatening. No rain. The day passed. I waited. I hoped.

Then, last night I woke to the sound of rain hitting the roof of my little log house. Oh! That sound! I've been waiting for it for so long. The darkling clouds had finally opened and let loose their contents in a nice downpour. Not a simple sprinkle. Not a fast quick rain and then gone. A good soaking rain.

And now the rain still falls. There is a white mist over the valley, hiding what I know is there. The cove feels even more secret. I am content.

This simple yog of thanks for rain. The ground soaking it up. The creek filling. I have need of nothing else this morning.

From the Selfish One by Kathryn Magendie

Dear Father Sky,

Though I know today is Election Day and I should be thinking about our country, I feel my selfish ways prick against my skin. I have entered the huddle of my cove and cried. I have placed my feet upon the ground from which your children from the sky have walked (for, after all, all things originated from Sky). I have touched the dry Mother Earth; I have bent to the curling leaves, I have cupped water from the creek as I watched it struggle. I have stood in this cove and heard the sounds of men; and Father Sky, I know it is wrong to let my selfishness rise up out of me as a hungry beast, but I do not like the sounds the men are making below. Tearing sounds. Sounds of trees falling. Sounds of big machines ripping up earth. Even the sounds of traffic have cupped in the cove and hummed here, trapped from the changes in season and the poor creek's song low low. Father Sky, I am asking for rain for this area. I am not asking for a leader to be chosen in the way of my thinking, for what will be will be and I am here in my cove on my little mountain and the outward earth seems far away today, yet very very close when I hear the roar and the crash below. Yes, I am selfish today.

Father Sky, perhaps you do not hear my appreciation, for the days have been lovely and the colors wild and bright. I give thanks every morning when I rise, every day when I walk outside to the new day, every afternoon as I sigh into the treetops, every evening as I eat my supper, every night as I lie down in my bed and let out an old dog sigh—perhaps I have not been thankful enough? Perhaps my selfishness keeps you from hearing me, for after all, many must call out to you for many things, especially on a day as today in the America Land? But Father Sky, we need the rain. The ground thirsts, the critters’ movements changed, the creek—oh my creek!—does not sing joyous but is instead sick and low. Father Sky, send rain to our mountains, to our valleys, to the hollows and hills. The leader will be chosen and the Earth will spin. The people here will find the rhythm to the new. But, I, I want the cove like the old ways. Perhaps there are reasons for the lacking rain as things turn as they will for Mother Earth. But I am selfish.

In the case you do not know the thankfulness I feel from being here because of my selfish ways: Here. Right here and now, I raise up my voice and I raise up my hands and I call out to you, Father Sky, in happy thanks for the beauty I walk upon. But, please, send Rain to these droughted regions. Send the snow this winter to melt and fill the creek. As you will, I will receive. As you can’t, I will accept. As you know best, it will be. Thank you, Father Sky.