It’s the way the rain dripped off the leaves on the summer morning after the evening’s thunderstorm, and the big and small puddles filled with worms and the way the air smelled clean again. The early breeze cooler than the wind of the past few weeks. Some of the leaves were yellowing now and even a few had fallen to the ground.

I come inside and sit in a room I built with my own hands on furniture saved from the dumpster and inherited from dead relatives, enjoying my comfort and privilege. Finding myself irritated the picture window has fogged over because the seal broke and I have to replace the glass panes, fully aware somewhere, someone, right now, is being stoned to death or beaten or imprisoned or raped or otherwise tortured and killed for their beliefs.

Watching the last drops of rain sashay around the edge of a wide maple leaf, find its channel and drop to the ground. A fat squirrel steals his morning meal of wet bird food, as I’m struck with the realization my belief system is gone. It has been on shaky ground since I watched Billy Graham and Nixon pal around in the 70s, and the day I realized God worked for the government.

I turn my attention to a corner of my neighbors yard that grows wild and free. Long grasses and Queen Anne’s lace, purple loosestrife, six foot tall succulents, all well quenched from the storm, one man’s weeds, another man’s garden.

I’ll take my comfort and solace in the random and the chaotic.