Some days I do not wish for the rain to stop.
When I first came to Tay Con Linh, I would not have said that.
Back then, rain made me restless.
Slippery paths.
Wet shoes.I began to like the sound of rain
Clothes that would not dry no matter how long they hung.
Work having to stop.
Plans just made having to change.
Some days it rained from morning to evening, and I sat in the small shelter looking out, the heart restless. Not sad exactly. Not quite lonely either. But because there were still too many things unfinished in my head.
Back then I only hoped the rain would stop quickly.
Stop so I could keep going.
Stop so I could work.
Stop so I would not feel trapped in the middle of a vast mountain area where everything seemed much slower than anything I had ever known.
But having lived here long enough, I began to see that rain has its own reason.
Some days, rain does not come to block you.
Rain comes to keep you sitting still.
I began to like the sound of rain
I do not know exactly when I began to like the sound of rain on the roof.
Rain falling on the leaf roof.
Water running from the slope down to the creek.
Each drop falling very steadily outside the porch.
Some days I brew a pot of tea, sit quietly watching the rain cover the Rang Cua ridge.
At first still able to see a few ridge lines.
A little later, mist and rain wrapping around each other, everything disappearing.
No more mountain peak.
No more valley.
No more distant rooftops.
Only a very thick white curtain.
I sit there.
Doing nothing.
Not thinking of anything profound.
Only listening to the rain.
Strange.
Some sounds, the longer you listen, the more they quiet the heart.
Rain is one of those sounds.
It is not in a hurry.
It does not push.
It does not demand an answer.
It just falls.
And I sit there, like someone who has just been given permission to rest after many days of forcing myself to stay strong.
Rain brings back the early years
Every time it rains heavily, I remember the early years of building this place.
Days when very few people were here.
Often almost alone.
Walking alone.
Thinking alone.
Worrying alone.
Fixing small things alone.
Listening alone to the wind moving through the forest at night.
Some nights of very heavy wind and rain.
Lying in the shelter, listening to the gusts against the wall, the palm leaves trembling, the forest moving outside — I sometimes asked myself:
“What am I doing here?”
That question was not always easy to answer.
Some times very certain.
Some times very tired.
Some times thinking I understood the path I had chosen, and then just one cold rainy night, the heart sagging again.
I think anyone who has built something from nearly nothing will understand that feeling.
Not every moment is as brave as others imagine.
Some days, I was just trying a little harder.
Then a little harder again.
That was all.
Rain never asks if I am alright
The strange thing is that rain never asks if I am alright.
Neither does the mountain.
Neither does the forest.
They are simply there.
Silent.
Without judgment.
Without advice.
Without telling me to be stronger.
Perhaps that is why I find it easier to sit with rain than to sit through many conversations.
When tired, I do not have to explain myself to the rain.
When confused, I do not have to arrange my words clearly.
When sad, I do not have to name the sadness.
I only sit there.
Brew a pot of tea.
Listen to the rain.
Watch mist cover the mountain range.
Let everything inside settle slowly.
Not that the worry disappears.
Not that the tiredness is gone.
Just a little less tense.
Often, that is already very precious.
Some rainy days make me more honest
Clear skies usually make people want to keep going.
Want to do something.
Want to finish a task.
Want to take a beautiful photograph.
Want to go outside.
Rain is different.
Rain makes everything slow down.
And when you can no longer run, you start meeting the things inside yourself that you usually avoid.
Some old questions.
Some old worries.
Some fatigue you thought you had gotten used to.
Some things you have not told anyone.
Some things even you do not want to bring up again.
Rain does not make them disappear.
But rain makes them quieter.
I do not know how to describe that precisely.
Only that after a long rain, I often feel lighter.
Not because everything has been resolved.
But because I sat still long enough to stop fighting myself.
Tay Con Linh taught me how to wait
Here, many things cannot be rushed.
Rain does not stop because I want to go.
Mist does not clear because I need to photograph.
Paths do not dry because I already have a schedule.
Streams do not shrink because I made a promise to visitors.
Tay Con Linh taught me a very simple lesson.
If you can wait, wait.
If you cannot go, stop.
If it cannot be done today, leave it for tomorrow.
At first I found that lesson uncomfortable.
Later I saw it was right.
Life is often like that too.
Not every task can be forced to completion.
Not every worry can be resolved immediately.
Not every answer comes when you need it.
Some things must be waited for.
Some things must pass through a few rainy seasons before you understand them.
Some things — if rushed — you only make worse.
I no longer feel a rainy day is a lost day
Now, if I wake up to rain, I am no longer vexed as before.
Sometimes I even feel the heart soften a little.
I brew tea.
Sit on the porch.
Watch the rain move through the treetops.
Watch the water run down the familiar slope.
Watch the Rang Cua ridge fade behind the curtain of mist.
Some days sitting very long.
The tea has long gone cold.
I do not bother brewing another cup right away.
Just sit.
Occasionally hearing a very distant bird.
Occasionally hearing a dog bark somewhere below in the village.
Occasionally hearing only the rain.
I do not claim to be happy in those moments.
Saying so would sound too large.
Only that I feel the heart is quieter.
Feel that I am still here.
Still capable of weathering a rainy day.
Still patient enough to wait for the light to return.
Still wanting to continue.
That is already enough.
If it rains today
If one day you come to Tay Con Linh and it is raining, perhaps you will feel a little sorry.
Sorry not to see the mountains.
Sorry not to go far.
Sorry that the photographs will not be as beautiful as you imagined.
I understand that feeling.
I used to feel it too.
But if you can, try sitting still for a while.
Do not rush to ask when the rain will stop.
Do not rush to open your phone.
Do not rush to fill that time with something.
Brew a cup of tea.
Sit on the porch.
Listen to the rain.
Watch the mist moving across the mountain.
Perhaps you will find nothing special.
That is fine too.
Not every day does the mountain need to offer you a clear gift.
Sometimes the gift lies in simply being allowed to sit still for a while, in a day when everything outside is slowing down.
Some rains keep you here
I used to think rain slowed my life.
Now I think differently.
Perhaps rain has many times kept me here.
Kept me from running too fast.
Kept me from pushing too hard.
Kept me from turning Tay Con Linh into a place only for working, running tours, planning, doing projects.
Rain reminds me that this place is, above all, a living mountain range.
It does not always open its doors to let me in.
It does not always follow my schedule.
It does not always need to be beautiful in the way I hope.
Some days, Tay Con Linh only has rain.
And if you have enough patience to stay, rain also has its story.
A very slow story.
Very quiet.
And often, very much like the inside of yourself.
