At times I remain silent, waiting patiently for the writing to flow correctly. Other times, my words pour like waterfall's onto the page.

I must tell you, dear reader, that I have not been wandering through the desert these past weeks. My writing has not shriveled up because of the sand of writing blocks or the heat of too many tasks. Instead, it has been the dry season here, a normal circulation of time and seasons which lead me to more thinking and less writing. I once wrote that writing is a response, a reaction to thoughts and events, not the catalyst to action. While I remain uncertain how true this remains, I believe it today. My thoughts have been many, the mountains I've climbed have been high, and I've been glad for the sun. But now it's time to come back down to the valley's edge, let the water fall upon my restored skin.

The rainy season is here and my fallow soul needs it.

From mountain tops, one can view the ends of the earth and breath each shallow breath in ecstasy of life. On mountain tops there is no growth to speak of, only sky and cold air and sun. It is a monoculture of living, only you and the earth. Mountain tops are places for pilgrimage, but never patronage.

During dry seasons, you may travel the river beds and dry pastures with ease, discovering fevered grottoes and dessicated tributaries. It is a time of unusual exploration, a time to chart and graph new river maps for the monsoon season. Treasure is hidden beneath the arid soil and sand, secrets buried and left to be recovered only in these thirsty times.

A soul may be bleached white again during the drought.

The sweet soil is swallowing gallon after gallon of fluid, a barren sponge finally soaking in the long expected downpour. Ambrosial rain sings across my tongue; liquid life restores my patient heart and head.

"There will be water when God wills it."