I watch the rain. At first I might say it is cascading down the thatched roof, falling differently according to the turns and flats of a house with corners, and I am right, at first. When I study closer, I notice that the fall begins with individual drops, a whole line of them just at the point of falling. This is when they conjoin with other drops and become a straight line of water as they had in the moment they landed on the roof, way up there, where one slide of thatch joins the other, one this way, one that way, a steeple of fingers, protecting, sealing, a cooked snook at the sky. At first, individuals, these drops, then, it seems, merrily and inevitably becoming one body of water. They were singular as they fell from the clouds, for a long time and over a far distance, and then they met the roof, the apex and sighed into one. But did they sigh or did they happily connect with all those other solo drops, chattering and sharing space, knowing they would find themselves once again at the next fall, the one under which I stand, my fingers feeling their cool and somewhat dismissive diffidence to my skin, my palm unable to contain more than a few of them. Tipping my palm, they fall again as drips, as drops, individuals once again. Perhaps they are changed by their encounter with others and maybe more than once on their journey. It thinks me.

Although an individual’s journey through life cannot be defined as a fall, no matter how many falls may be encountered, the business of connection and, therefore, change, is true for us all. Whether a bonus or a pain in the arse, each encounter holds possibilities, for friendship, for fury, for joy, for outrage, a mind change or a mind set confirmed. Any which way, if taken seriously and with an open heart, these encounters may throw us together for a while, happily or not. When I find myself in a crowd of people, say in a busy market, inside a lift, a bus, train or plane, I have little choice beyond where I sit or stand. I have felt the irritation of bumping people unaware or uncaring about the amount of space they take up or the toes they squash and felt a rise of outrage. I have also, in those situations, felt glad I am not a bumper, not intentionally, being ever ready to flatten myself into a pencil, to take care not to invade another’s space, if space is even possible in such confinements. From my corner I have watched faces, read body language, agreed with myself that every one of us is not enjoying this one bit and then the outrage gentles into compassion. I know that soon we will become individuals once again and no longer a rush of people joined for a short time, not condemned to it forever, but what have we learned from this? Is it just something we have to bear, to re-story as a horrible experience, or did we really take in those around us and learn something from the whole experience beyond the perceived ‘nightmare?’ On looking back there were endless chances to make someone else feel better, a smile, a stepping back, an unspoken forgiveness offered, going possibly unnoticed, when a backpack thwacks a shoulder, or when an old person needs a seat and you give your own even though the young person next to you stares pointedly out at nothing. They know what they might offer, but they don’t. I get it. To be young is to fear rejection and it would take courage to proffer a seat in a public place with everyone silent and awfully busy just ‘getting through’ the so called nightmare, intact including toes.

We all need space. I certainly do. However in these times of squash, rush and bash we must all find ourselves at times. If we step into or onto them with curious interest, the whole situation is softened. A traffic jam can see us furious, finger tapping the wheel, crabby with others in the car, furious at life herself, or it can have us out of the car and walking up to the next equally compromised driver for a chat. We can observe the wildflowers on the banks, wonder at the magnitude of designing and constructing this highway, consider and reflect on our own lives, what we might change or develop. We can pick up a pen and a journal to write down some thoughts or read a book, or think hard about what this must feel like for all the other drivers and their passengers thus imprisoned. Endless, as I have said, opportunities that lift us out of our piddling little problematic world where we think we are the lead actor, the stage set just for us.

The raindrops drop, join to run a race, then divide again, into the same body of water, or forever changed because they were, just for a short while, a part of something bigger and way more powerful.