You know that moment when your body whispers, “Stay here. Rest. Let the world spin without you for just a little while”? And then, almost immediately, that other voice chimes in—the one that sounds like duty, productivity, all those years of being needed.

Just get up. You’re wasting time. There’s so much to do.

We’ve all been there. We’re conditioned to fight against rest, to view stillness as laziness, to believe that our worth is measured by our doing rather than our being.

But what if the deepest wisdom lives in those moments when we stop fighting and simply… surrender?

When a Poet Shows Us the Way

Raymond Carver captures this perfectly in his achingly honest poem “Rain”:

Woke up this morning with a terrific urge to lie in bed all day
and read. Fought against it for a minute.
Then looked out the window at the rain.
And gave over. Put myself entirely in the keep of this rainy morning.
Would I live my life over again?
Make the same unforgiveable mistakes?
Yes, given half a chance. Yes.

There is such quiet power in these words. “Fought against it for a minute”—just a minute. Not hours of internal battle. Not days of guilt. A minute. And then… permission.

What Rain Teaches Us About Surrender

Rain doesn’t apologize for falling. It doesn’t justify itself or fight against its nature. It simply… is.

When Carver writes that he “put himself entirely in the keep of this rainy morning,” he’s describing something profound: the act of trusting that this moment—this seemingly unproductive, deliciously still moment—is exactly where he needs to be.

The rain becomes permission. Not because it changes anything external, but because it mirrors back a truth we already know in our bones: sometimes, the most radical act of self-care is to stop fighting.

To look out the window at the rain and say, “Yes. Today I rest.”

The Beautiful Weight of “Yes”

But the poem doesn’t end with rest. It ends with something even more powerful: radical self-acceptance.

Would I live my life over again?
Make the same unforgiveable mistakes?
Yes, given half a chance. Yes.

This is where my breath catches. Because how many of us carry the weight of our “unforgiveable mistakes”? The relationships that ended badly. The years we lost to anxiety or depression. The dreams we didn’t pursue. The people we couldn’t save. The younger version of ourselves we judge so harshly.

For many of us in the autumn of our years, this weight can feel crushing. We replay our regrets like worn records, wondering what might have been if only we’d chosen differently.

But Carver offers us something revolutionary: wholehearted acceptance. Not despite the mistakes, but including them. He doesn’t say, “Yes, but I’d fix everything.” He says, “Yes. All of it. Even the painful parts. Yes.”

Practical Wisdom: Your Rainy Morning Practice

You don’t need to overhaul your entire life to practice this wisdom. Small steps. Gentle shifts.

Start by noticing your body’s whispers. When you wake up and feel that urge to rest, to slow down, to do nothing—pause before you fight it. Give yourself Carver’s minute. Just one minute to consider: what if this urge is wisdom, not weakness?

Create permission rituals. Look out the window. Notice the weather, the light, the season. Let the natural world remind you that rest is part of the rhythm of all living things. Gardens need fallow periods. Even the earth rests in winter.

Practice saying yes. Not to everything—boundaries are essential. But yes to your own needs. Yes to the book that calls you. Yes to the afternoon nap. Yes to canceling plans when your body says, “Not today.”

Write your own rain poem. It doesn’t need to be eloquent. Just honest. What would you do if you gave yourself permission? What mistakes would you make again because they led you here, to this moment, to this version of yourself?

The Truth About Regret

Here’s something I’ve learned both professionally and personally: regret isn’t healed by doing things differently. It’s healed by accepting that we did the best we could with what we knew at the time.

Every “mistake” we made was made by a younger version of ourselves—someone who was doing their best with less wisdom, less perspective, more fear, different circumstances. Would we really want to erase the path that brought us to who we are now?

When we can say “Yes” to our whole lives—the joyful parts and the painful parts, the wise choices and the stumbling ones—we free up enormous energy. Energy that was locked in the exhausting work of self-criticism. Energy that can now flow toward peace, toward creativity, toward whatever brings us alive.

The Keep of This Moment

“Put myself entirely in the keep of this rainy morning.”

What a gorgeous phrase. “In the keep” suggests both protection and surrender. A fortress and a refuge. Safety and trust.

What if you could put yourself entirely in the keep of this moment? Not yesterday’s regrets. Not tomorrow’s worries. Just this.

The rain falling. The book waiting. The breath moving through your body. The permission to simply be.

This is where healing lives. Not in doing more, achieving more, fixing more. But in the radical acceptance of what is—including yourself, exactly as you are, with all your beautiful, imperfect humanity.

Your Invitation

So today, I invite you to find your rainy morning. It might be literal rain, or it might be a sunny afternoon when your body asks for stillness. It might be the urge to write, to sit in your garden, to call an old friend, to do absolutely nothing.

Fight against it for a minute if you must. That’s part of being human.

But then… give over.

Put yourself entirely in the keep of this moment.

And if the question comes—would you live your life over again, make the same mistakes?—I hope you can answer with Carver’s profound courage:

Yes. Given half a chance. Yes.

Because all of it—every stumble, every triumph, every rainy morning you allowed yourself to rest—brought you here. To this moment. To this precious, unrepeatable version of yourself.

And that deserves a wholehearted yes.