in the still of the night

"Like the moon growing dim, on the rim of the hill
In the chill, still, of the night."

Cole Porter had it almost right.

There is something alluring about the night. Especially, the late night.

My poetic license would undoubtedly be suspended if I were so brash to contend there is a chill in our September nights. But, there certainly has been relief.

That is certainly not the norm for September -- the month we tend not to discuss when trying to lure friends and family to the area. A couple of years ago, our September was almost vulcanized when the heat index reached 132 for three straight days. I thought the instruments at the weather station has succumbed to hyperthermia. I was ready to join them.

This September has been a bit different. We have had our hot and humid days. Those two adjectives are twined and twinned here as closely as "drunk" and "sailor."

During the summer, we pray for rain. Not because we are cash subsidy farmers, but because the rain drives down the humidity and temperature to make our nights a bit more conducive to sleeping. Of course, when the sun comes out the next morning, the heat index spikes.

Last night was one of the pleasant nights. Around 11, I was in the pool reading. The Economist, I think. I heard a faint rumble in the distance, as if a freight train was coming through town. There was only one problem with that theory. There are no railroad tracks near here.

An earthquake? Nope. It was moving too slowly. But it was certainly steadily heading toward my house.

Without a "how do you do," a torrent of water fell on me. No transition sprinkle. A full frontal aquatic assault.

I grabbed my electronic gear and dashed into the kitchen to watch the patio floor turn into a lake. And to enjoy the immediate drop in temperature.

The summer Barco lived with me, I had air conditioning installed in the bedroom. Even though he was born in Barra de Navidad, he was still a golden retriever, and found the summer months more than his thick coat could endure.

After he died, I used the air conditioning for my own pleasure. I try to not use it before mid-July. This year, it was early July. I will use it until mid-October. The only time I do not use it to help me sleep is when we have evening rains. Like last night.

When it was time to retire, I opened up the doors to my bedroom, turned my ceiling fan on low, and slipped into (or onto) bed. With the doors open and the air conditioner not running, I discovered there was a night world just outside my door that I had not experienced lately.

This is where Cole Porter had it wrong. The night is not still. It is an oratorio. Crickets. Frogs. The echo of distant jake brakes.

I am a creature of the night. If Bela Lugosi needs reviving, I am your man. Two A.M. will regularly find me prowling my bedroom.

That was true last night. Rather than waste a perfectly good night with sleep, I got out of bed and stepped outside onto the now-dry patio. Without a moon, the night was ebon. The darkness simply intensified the sounds. I could even hear the talons of the buzzards scraping against the metal of the communication tower, attempting to retain roosting purchase.

So, I sat in the dark and listened to the little night music being performed just for me. Or anyone else who would take the time to merely stop and listen. Admission was free.

These moments happen all over the world. Every day. Every hour.

Some of you know of Brother Lawrence. He was a French lay brother in a Carmelite monastery in the 1600s. His book, The Practice of the Presence of God, is a Christian classic. That means everyone knows the title, but few have read it. Like Don Quixote.

Brother Lawrence joined the monastery for one purpose -- a closer relationship with God. He ended up working in the kitchen, and despised the work. Then, he remembered he was at the monastery to have a closer relationship with God. If God is omnipresent, God was in that kitchen. In the garden where Lawrence strolled. In the library where Lawrence wrote.

His solution was an answer to the age-old conundrum posed by Paul in his first letter to the Thessalonians  to "pray continually." Though he most likely did not invent the practice, Brother Lawrence was an advocate of "breath prayers." To be constantly aware of the countless moments of grace God brings to our lives.

The idea is to address God with the inhale -- breathing God in. The petition or praise is on the exhale. Short and sweet. Often just a statement of appreciation and contentment. Moving your focus from yourself to others -- and to God.

And that is exactly what I did last night. Thanking for the crickets. The voice of the frogs. And finding peace at the center, as my Quaker friends so eloquently put it.

As Anne Lamott would say (and did): "This is plenty of miracle for me to rest in now."