It's only a few weeks since my most recent such experience, which is
the one that got me thinking about this genre of meaningful planetary
epiphanies.
April and I were out for a long bike ride in the countryside (longer
than planned as a result my not having noticed where 717 and 703
branched off, and of my staying on 703 whereas our car was parked back
up 717). I had mapped our journey taking into account the
forecast that rain was a possibility beginning around 2 PM: had I
not missed that turn on 717, we'd have been done by 1:30. 703
however had us way off near Conicville at 1:30, which was very far from
the country church were our car, with its bike rack, was waiting to
keep us dry and take us home.
Retracing our path was out of the question, as a matter of principle,
and by then was of no advantage. There was another fine route to
get us home-- fine, that is, if the weather held up, which the clouds
gathering in the southwest suggested it would not.
About midway on this improved return route, the rain began. We
don't mind getting a little wet, so we continued. Then, the rain
intensified. We were right near a thick grove of oaks by the side
of the dirt road when getting wet was about to turn into getting
soaked, so we stopped under that big natural umbrella. This
umbrella had its leaks --I put my watch in my pocket-- but at least
we'd be spared the kind of soaking that chills the bones.
We looked around, and to one side there was a field of pastureland,
with grasses standing about a foot or two tall. One could see the
grassy land stretching from about fifty yards from us off for another
three hundred yards. The raindrops also were visible for much of
that distance, for this was no drizzle but a rain of substance.
Then the hard rain became a downpour. Little wind. No
lightning or thunder, but a pounding rain drubbing the dirt road,
pattering on the oak leaves, and driving silently into the grassy field.
It was watching the rain falling onto that field of grass that gave me
that "What a planet!" experience. It had been a dry couple of
weeks, with summer heat baking out the land. And now the rain was
coming, filling the air with countless pixels of wetness descending
into the green blanket of the field, which absorbed it all without a
word but with what I felt was intense vitality infused with a kind of
vegetative gratitude.
It was, I felt, a primeval scene, played out on this planet for
hundreds of millions of years. Rain falling out of the sky,
replenishing the life of the earth's green children.
Well, those are some of my most memorable "What a planet!" experiences.
Have you had a "What a planet!" experience you'd like to tell?
the one that got me thinking about this genre of meaningful planetary
epiphanies.
April and I were out for a long bike ride in the countryside (longer
than planned as a result my not having noticed where 717 and 703
branched off, and of my staying on 703 whereas our car was parked back
up 717). I had mapped our journey taking into account the
forecast that rain was a possibility beginning around 2 PM: had I
not missed that turn on 717, we'd have been done by 1:30. 703
however had us way off near Conicville at 1:30, which was very far from
the country church were our car, with its bike rack, was waiting to
keep us dry and take us home.
Retracing our path was out of the question, as a matter of principle,
and by then was of no advantage. There was another fine route to
get us home-- fine, that is, if the weather held up, which the clouds
gathering in the southwest suggested it would not.
About midway on this improved return route, the rain began. We
don't mind getting a little wet, so we continued. Then, the rain
intensified. We were right near a thick grove of oaks by the side
of the dirt road when getting wet was about to turn into getting
soaked, so we stopped under that big natural umbrella. This
umbrella had its leaks --I put my watch in my pocket-- but at least
we'd be spared the kind of soaking that chills the bones.
We looked around, and to one side there was a field of pastureland,
with grasses standing about a foot or two tall. One could see the
grassy land stretching from about fifty yards from us off for another
three hundred yards. The raindrops also were visible for much of
that distance, for this was no drizzle but a rain of substance.
Then the hard rain became a downpour. Little wind. No
lightning or thunder, but a pounding rain drubbing the dirt road,
pattering on the oak leaves, and driving silently into the grassy field.
It was watching the rain falling onto that field of grass that gave me
that "What a planet!" experience. It had been a dry couple of
weeks, with summer heat baking out the land. And now the rain was
coming, filling the air with countless pixels of wetness descending
into the green blanket of the field, which absorbed it all without a
word but with what I felt was intense vitality infused with a kind of
vegetative gratitude.
It was, I felt, a primeval scene, played out on this planet for
hundreds of millions of years. Rain falling out of the sky,
replenishing the life of the earth's green children.
Well, those are some of my most memorable "What a planet!" experiences.
Have you had a "What a planet!" experience you'd like to tell?
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