As soon as I walked outside this morning, I knew that it was going to rain. A couple of tiny, soft , drops of water splashed on my bare arms. The rain was on its way.

Yesterday, I went outside and planted some seeds in my garden, but I didn’t do what I normally do after I plant. I did not water my seeds. It was supposed to rain all night, and I knew the rain would provide the water that my seeds needed to grow.

Yet, as soon as I walked outside this morning, I realized that it had not rained. The ground was still dry and parched. And then, almost as if it was orered by the Mystics themselves, a soft, quiet drop of cool, sweet water touched me. I knew that it was going to rain.

Soon, the wind picked up, and it swirled softly through the branches of my Fairy Rose bushes, and they began to dance. My spirit danced with them. It was going to rain. I could feel it.

I have set chairs outside for moments like these—for moments when magic moves through my garden. I decided to simiply sit and wait. Soon it happened:

The rain was cool. It was nourishment. It was refreshment. It is July 9th in Mississippi, and I guarantee you that normally, this is one of the hottest places to be on July 9th. Normally, I’m a “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof” in July, but this morning, as I stopped and allowed the water to wash over me, I was baptized. I was born again. Once more, I was ready to walk in newness of life.

The born-again comments are the voices of my Southern Baptist upbringing. They are the sounds of my childhood ringing in my ear. I’m a Memoir writer, and I always welcome the sounds of my childhood when they come swimming back to me, but a Nature Journal is not about Memory—it is about capturing what I see, hear, smell, and sense right now—in the moment.

Drop by drop, the rain nourishes my soul. ”Sweet, Holy Spirit.”