No more holy than any other day

After yesterday's all-day rain, a rain which never took a break, never paused for a breath or to give those weary of the water torture a moment's respite, a reprieve from wetness, everything this grey Saturday morning is vibrantly green. The word verdant comes to mind. Every leaf, every blade of grass is glowing so intensely, so neon greenly, that it feels like the whole yard might levitate. The greenness is vibrating in the same way I imagine the light of an angel's halo might vibrate.

Actually, I don't have to imagine that kind of vibration since I was witness to it as a small child. When I was four, the year my grandmother died, the year in which I'd awake in the middle of the night screaming from bad dreams and my mother would whisk into the room like a ghost in her negligee and lie to me when I pleaded "Am I going to die? Are you going to die?" --No, she'd say, Laurel. You are not going to die. I am not going to die. Then she'd stroke my face with her cool white hand and tell me to go back to sleep.--I saw my guardian angel. It wasn't a dream. I swear to you, this was real. I woke in the middle of the night to the sensation of being watched. There was a strange light in the room, brighter than the sun, but softer. It was the cleanest, whitest light I've ever looked into. She was hovering over my bed in silence, wings spread, arms open, smiling at me in the same closed-mouth way and with the same unflappable watching eyes of the Mona Lisa. I don't know how long the moment lasted. She never said a word but I could feel the safety, the comfort of her presence. I've never doubted the reality of that vision. I may not believe in god, but I do believe in angels because I have seen one.

Speaking of angels, the stone angel on the patio looks especially grim this morning. Grey and damp, green with moss. The birdbath and the little creek formed by the output of the storm drain are overflowing. Water has pooled in the flowerpots and on the black vinyl cover of the grill.

Yesterday, a family of woodchucks, mom and her litter of five, roamed the backyard in the pouring rain munching on dandelions. Wuchak. An Indian word. Cree. I'd never seen a baby woodchuck before. They're cute as the dickens, about the size of guinea pigs. I tried to snap some pictures yesterday but my zoom doesn't have enough zoom and I was getting alot of reflection from the sliding glass door. I hope they roam through again today. I'd like to get at least one decent photograph of one of the babies.

Ah, the sun just came out which makes the green world even greener. (and just that swiftly, the sun is gone...)

It's June, isn't it? How odd that May's gone and I have no memory of it.