If I thought I was going to spend my days singing and dancing in the sunshine, the weather gods had other plans. The rain starts up and doesn't stop. It rains for days on end. I keep finding myself staring out the window at the wet environment. I keep telling myself, more rain than I have seen since the monsoons in India. Light rain I can embrace and play in, but this is a serious deluge. Staring through the glass doors with a feeling of helplessness, I have the distinct sensation that I am isolated on an island that will soon float away. The weather is sure helping me to slow down, I reassure myself.

Sadly, just when I am sure it will clear up, it turns cold and rains some more. I didn't remember November could be so cold in Texas. One extremely cold rainy morning, nothing or no one under God's gray heavens could have dragged me out of bed. Not that I feel bad, I feel soooo good under the warm fluffy blanket. I can relax, for there are no alarm clocks in my world. I think of all of the people who have to get out of bed every day, just like an automaton, to drive to work whether they like it or not. Have they ever had the time to think whether they liked it or not? I'm sure the furry creatures in the woods agree with me; this is a day to stay inside. I wonder if, while cuddled in their burrows, they like to daydream of wonderful friends and faraway places like I do. Somehow the natural world seems so comfortable and content with whatever the weather brings.

Suddenly, the rain stops, for I can hear some birds twittering outside the window. They seem totally oblivious to the cold dark air. Then one of them breaks out into a beautiful song. What kind of creature can be singing on a day like this? Singing—even though his feathers must be dripping wet and his tiny claws frozen stiff. He can't be heralding springtime, not in November. I hope he knows something that I don't.

At last a day arrives without rain. However, the clouds are so gloomy and the ground is so incredibly soggy that I opt to stay inside all day. My priority was to get the computer set up and to start writing, so all other tasks have been spread out over two weeks. Now I only have to finish organizing my files. The good thing about being forced to stay inside for days is I have made headway in organizing the house, which shows signs of its long vacancy—an ample supply of bug carcasses, spider webs and serious dust balls. In addition, the house has been used as an extended garage, so I end up having to pack up box after box of junk to move to a storage room to find space for my belongings. I can't even get into the living room for all the worn-out furniture that has been dragged out here from different decorating renditions of home and office. Do we ever have enough things?

Late one afternoon, I take a break from the computer to hang a bird feeder with sunflower seeds. I definitely plan to find time for lots of bird watching. Just as I go out the door, a huge woodpecker whirls by, scolding me as he lands in the nearby Chinese elm. Standing still as a statue, I wait to see if he will accept my presence. For several moments, he hops around in the top of the tree, shrieking and complaining. Then, to my disappointment, he flies away.

He appears to be a pileated woodpecker that I saw regularly when I was living in Vermont. However, the principal woodpecker in this area is the red-cockated, an endangered species, which has a preserve nearby. I wonder if the two are similar. When I consult the guide, I learn that the red-cockated is not red at all, but only has a couple of slender long red feathers hanging from its cheeks. So my guest was a pileated woodpecker. I am elated, for I had no idea the species lived so far south.

While I am outside, I hear some cackling coming from the direction of the pond. The sounds entice me to head out for a walk in spite of all the slush, for there's not a dry spot to be found anywhere. With sturdy boots, I slog through the spacious meadow around the pond. Away from buildings and trees, I can get a complete vista of the wide Texas sky. Half of the heavens remain dark gray with clouds, but the other half is alive with luminous crimson hues, radiating from the setting sun. I pause to take in the golden patches of light that are draping a halo around the spreading oaks.

In order to conceal myself, I take the route on the wooded side of the pond. When I have taken a few midday excursions between thunderstorms, the ducks have shown an uncanny ability to sense my approach and take flight. This evening I plan to sneak upon them under the cover of trees. As I wander down the shady forest lane, the vignettes that I encounter reflect all that is good, alive and beautiful in this awesome creation. Along the path, I find green mosses, brown mushrooms, round rosettes of tiny immature leaves and an occasional purple violet, even though it's almost winter.

But I have no luck with the wood ducks; they take off before I get close enough to see them well. As they fly away, I count three small flocks of them. I hang around to see if they might possibly return, but I finally have to give up, for dark—and cold—are fast approaching. Certainly, the pond becomes a landmark in my little paradise. Although the pond is surrounded by large trees, its sandy bank on the southeast shore is perfect for swimming and launching a canoe. Despite the short five minute return walk, by the time I reach the house, the forest is shrouded in a thick fog. I'll see no stars again tonight.

Once one has started to slow down, it's amazing how the simplest act can be so full of pleasure. A few days later, the bird clock chirps two o'clock as I am going out to the deck to eat a salad for lunch. (I don't have a fixed lunch hour either.) The sun is already hanging behind the tall pines to the south. First, I sit in a chair, but it seems a bit cool in the shade, especially when I notice that one-half of the deck is bathed in bright sunlight. So I move my body to the sunny spot and plop down right on the bare wood. Aligning my back to catch the warm sun, I proceed to munch on a lettuce and sprout salad. Within minutes, I begin to feel a warm glow radiating through the skin of my back. The soft fingers of the sunrays begin to penetrate my flesh. It's such an amazing feeling: to be entirely in the body and aware of its sensations. I breathe deeply as I savor the crisp greens with crunchy noises between my teeth. These simple things make me feel very satisfied.

I have to moderate my spacing-out time because I am just now getting into the serious editing of my travels in India manuscript. [Journey through Timeless India] Even so, when the next day continues to give me lovely weather, I find it difficult to stay inside. Finally, I compromise and go down to the pond to lie under a tree to proofread and mark up several chapters. Since the pond is surrounded by oaks and pines, some large, some small, some scattered thickly, some thinly, I can take my pick of sun or shade in any ratio. Choosing a spot with plenty of sunlight, I spread my straw mat on a grassy knoll beneath a spreading oak. From all the rainy days, my body seems as if it is crying to be dried out.

Throughout the day while I am reading, I keep a thread of awareness of the wonderful natural expanse that I am in. To take it in further, I wander over to a tranquil grove, sit back on a cushy bed of soft brown pine needles, and join the tall pines in their stately attitude of being. A soft energy expands the sense of my physical body. As I sit there, I wonder where I start and where I end. Does the life that raises the tree sap, ignites the green leaves and paints the violets purple run through me too?

I sit for a long time with my eyes open for I want to experience consciously the affinity between me and the fresh, yet so ancient, creations that surround me. Their subtle vibrations seem to penetrate my being. I am beginning to realize that slowin' down is an essential ingredient in my ability to encounter nature—and myself. Gradually, the dim light languidly dissolves into the dark branches of the stark bare trees. In solemn awe, I make my way back home to light a candle on the hearth.