Carbondale, Colorado. 6:30 a.m. — October 11, 2025
A rainy, golden morning. The trees, dark and glistening, seem more alive when wet, as if the water reminded them that they still belong to the earth. The sun begins to slip through the clouds, and the golden light blends with the scent of moisture. It is a scene that invites gratitude: for the clean air, for the stillness of the ground, for the leaves returning to their origin, now that the Earth’s position has signaled the arrival of autumn.
When leaves fall, they appear to be sleeping, yet they are beginning another journey. Rain softens them, loosens them, and allows tiny invisible beings—fungi, bacteria, and microorganisms—to begin their work.
These tiny inhabitants of the soil are so small they cannot be seen, yet their existence makes everything possible. They are the great imitators of God: creating life from what appears dead, transforming the old into new nourishment, keeping the balance of Earth in motion.
Water is their divine spark. When the soil becomes moist, the microorganisms awaken, receiving oxygen and the ability to move. The water dissolves the nutrients they need and allows them to breathe and multiply. Without water, the ground sleeps; with it, the planet ignites.
And if one thinks about it carefully, when all this happens—when microorganisms break down leaves or bodies in cemeteries—it is life finishing off death, life creating life. It is, in truth, the death of death through life itself.
Thus, these invisible workers slowly turn leaves into fertile soil. Rain does not merely cleanse—it reactivates the machinery of life.
The productivity of nature is silent, patient, and perfect. A tree, for instance, does not move, it does not rush, it seeks nothing—yet it produces oxygen, fruit, shade, and beauty. A single mature tree can generate about 100 kilograms of oxygen each year, enough for two people to breathe for twelve months. It does so effortlessly, transforming sunlight, water, and carbon dioxide into life through photosynthesis—a chemical operation so precise that modern science still studies it in the pursuit of clean energy.
Bees, whose bodies weigh barely a tenth of a gram, pollinate nearly 75% of the world’s food crops. Without speeches or machines, they ensure that flowers become fruit and that Earth’s diversity endures.
Beneath the soil, fungi extend kilometer-long networks—the mycelium—connecting trees and allowing them to share nutrients and warnings. It is the natural internet, older and more efficient than any human system.
None of this happens in haste. Nature acts slowly, intelligently, and with precision. Every cycle has its time, every species its purpose. The tree does not force the fruit to ripen—it waits. The bee does not rush—it repeats its flight. The rain demands no results—it simply falls, and in falling, everything happens.
Rain has a strange power: it calms the mind and silences inner noise. Each drop is like a word from the sky, repeated again and again until one finally understands the message: everything renews itself. Nothing ever truly dies. That rhythm—the constant falling, the tireless repetition—teaches us that we, too, need habits that return us to our center.
A psychologist once said that happiness does not depend on change, but on conscious regularity. Routine is not a prison but a path. Like the rain, repetition purifies. Day after day, gesture after gesture, we wash away what is excessive until only what matters remains. There are no identical rains, nor identical mornings.
And that is not just metaphor. Scientifically, each dawn is different. No combination of factors—the air pressure, the exact position of the sun, the amount of water on the leaves, the microorganisms in the soil, or the state of our own mind—ever repeats itself. What repeats is our unconsciousness of the present. We are distracted by the past, anxious for the future, and that blindness keeps us from seeing the vastness unfolding before us, here and now.
To order the mind is to create a favorable inner climate. Each deliberate action—brewing coffee, opening the window, writing a line—becomes an act of gratitude. Routine, when chosen, becomes a silent prayer. Then the ordinary ceases to be a burden and turns into a way of flowing with life.
When the mind reaches that balance, something changes: it stops seeking outside what already lives within. The same order that governs the rain, the growth of the tree, or the flight of the bee begins to mirror itself in human consciousness. Peace no longer depends on outer silence but on inner stillness. From that serenity arises a deeper joy—a happiness without visible cause.
And that is why, as Thoreau said, “there is no wealth but life in simplicity, and no poverty like complication.”
I always find beauty in the simplicity of my seemingly ordinary life.
For now I understand that it is not circumstances that shape my emotions, but my consciousness that generates the state from which I experience them.
Life does not happen outside of me—it happens through me. And while it rains upon the earth, it also rains within the mind that has learned to see.
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