It is beautiful when it rains. I hear the drops falling on the resilient papery thatching. Rarely, it is cold at night, and a second blanket is needed. During the day it’s more often sunny, less often cloudy.
Over the course of months, the phases of the moon go by. As the full moon approaches it becomes bright outside, and the light filters into the maloka. If there are thinner clouds, the whole sky is bright. If there are no clouds, the Milky Way glows between sprawling constellations.
A downpour power-washes the soul. Water collects on the fine absorbent sand, forming lakelets and streams. Sometimes there is no rain for days, and sometimes it rains lightly nonstop all day, with heavier crescendoes. Afterwards, the trees drip for a while.
A soundscape is chirping at night, which falls eerily quiet, all at once, when thunder booms in the distance. Birds call, roosters crow, the dogs bark protectively from the soccer field. Grouses grackle conversingly in the morning from the forest edge, loudly nearby. At night, a fancy bird occasionally twirls a call, or there is a comforting deeper avian sound.
With care, there are roots on the path, and it is rewarding to walk barefoot. Even the mosquitoes have their lessons. Everything is growing green and decaying, plants trees fungi termites woodpeckers; a band of shy small monkeys visits way up high, chirruping. Thus, life’s medicine flows, and everything is harmoniously connected.
