13/08/2026
Women’s day reflection 🍃
The painter, the rain and our ability to pause
By Inge-Amé de Bruin
Celebrating Women’s Day this August looked a little different on my side this year.
Normally, I would do something small but special to mark the day. Maybe a cup of coffee by myself at a cosy coffee shop, or a trip to the V&A Waterfront where I could walk around the harbour and enjoy the beauty of Cape Town.
This August, however, has been filled to the brim with work meetings, client needs, facilitating online classes, and balancing all of that with caring for my family, which is where my heart finds its peace.
At this time of year, it can sometimes feel as though our to-do lists as women, workers, mothers, caretakers, friends, and all the other roles we fulfil seem to grow rather than shorten.
While thinking about what I wanted to share for Women’s Day, my thoughts kept returning to something that happened about two months ago.
On a random weekday, a client gifted me a very special little book that speaks beautifully to mindfulness. One of the short stories in the book is titled The Painter and the Rain, written by Kai Tsukimi:
A painter sat in the village square, carefully brushing ink onto a long scroll. For hours, she worked—each stroke precise, each detail perfect. A river flowed through the mountains. A crane soared beneath the moon. The villagers gathered in silence, watching.
The sky darkened.
A single raindrop landed on the scroll. Then another.
The painter lifted her brush. Black rivers bled across the page. The crane melted into the sky. The villagers stepped back. The rain fell harder.
The painter did not move.
She watched as the water carried her work away, drop by drop, until nothing remained but wet paper.
She set down her brush.
For a long time, she only watched.
Then, slowly, she reached out—and traced her finger along the trails the rain had left. Her hand moved not against the storm, but with it.
The ink spread. The shapes shifted.
The villagers did not know whether she was painting, or only watching.
Neither did she.
When I first read the story, it stayed with me.
There are probably many ways to interpret it, but for me, there is something powerful in the moment when the painter stops trying to protect what she had planned and decides to observe what is happening.
She pauses.
She does not immediately fight the rain. She does not rush to repair everything. She allows herself a moment to take in what is happening before deciding what to do next.
About a month later, I attended a conference in Pretoria and had the privilege of spending some time with my mother while I was on that side of the country. She surprised me with a candlelight concert at Shepstone Gardens in Johannesburg, where we listened to a live string quartet performing Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.
The beautiful venue was lit up by hundreds of candles. Somewhere during that concert, I found myself thinking about the painter and the rain again.
Vivaldi’s music moves through the seasons: spring, summer, autumn and winter. Seasons of growth and abundance, but also seasons of change, stillness and uncertainty.
I looked over at my mother sitting next to me. She had closed her eyes and was taking in the music. Something about that moment connected the two experiences for me.
We are allowed to pause.
We are allowed to take in what life is presenting to us before deciding what needs to happen next. Perhaps not every unexpected change needs an immediate response. Sometimes we can observe for a moment, like the painter watching the rain, or someone closing her eyes and listening to the music.
As we all know, life has seasons too.
Some feel full and flourishing. Others feel demanding.
Some ask us to move quickly, while others ask us to become still.
In the light of Women’s Day, may you give yourself the same grace the painter gave herself:
You are allowed to pause. Take in what is in front of you. And then decide on your next course of action.
