3 am India

As I lay here in my hard narrow bed, I admire the color purple that surrounds me on my mosquito netting. It may be raining out. It may also be monkeys dancing on the roof again. I find it hard to differentiate the two. Either way both have managed to steal the sleep from my eyes. When I hear the peacocks mating call I can actually see its colorful feathers flapping. And when I think of the monkeys dancing on the tin roof above me, I imagine they are smiling. India is a symphony of sounds that you never knew could make a melody. It is a paper full of watery colors, one seeming to bleed slightly into the next, wonderfully connected. It exudes a kind of beauty not only from how it looks but simply from what it is. My feet have never walked this ground before, it is all so mysterious to me and oh so captivating. I realize that it is in fact raindrops tapping the tin roof that has stolen sleep from my eyes. Its drumming has been far too continuous and the monkeys would have gotten tired by now. I do hope that by the time the Indian sun slides up slowly behind my side of the mountain, I will be able to paint myself as a small drop of this water color page, preferably purple.  And realize that I am here. Breathing this beauty. Walking barefoot on this foreign ground. There is no telling what the day will bring. All I know to be true is that I will be okay. In holding this truth, I notice the drumming on the tin roof has turned to a rainy lullaby and the hard stiff bed reminds me of the muddy rocks I've learned to dance upon.