Weather and Signs: reading the Sky between Spirituality and Nature

Today, when we check the weather on Google, we want to know whether it will rain, whether the sun will shine, whether the wind will disrupt our plans—as if everything depended on a forecast. We no longer truly observe the sky. It has become a backdrop, a piece of data to glance at quickly. We have forgotten how to read it.

Yet in many spiritual traditions—and particularly in Islam—the sky speaks. Rain is never just rain, wind is never only wind, and clouds are never merely clouds. They are signs: messages that invite reflection on the relationship between human beings and creation.

From my garden, I can observe these phenomena without checking an app. Today the sky is grey, yet the air carries the delicate scent of Calycanthus, a quiet sign of renewal. The rain has washed away the heaviness of the past days. Then the wind arrived, surprising me once again. It brings headaches and pressure, yet it remains something special—testing us, unsettling us, shaking us awake and, at the same time, bringing clarity.

In many cultures, wind is associated with spirit, breath, and transformation. It never passes without saying something.

I have a vivid memory of the wind in Dar es Salaam: a wind that may have contributed to a greater design, still unfinished—like a weather forecast that remains suspended, awaiting confirmation—while I hold the compass rose in my hand.

The human mind works much like the climate, constantly changing, shifting between clear days and sudden storms. Learning to observe the sky—slowly and without haste—can teach us how to observe ourselves. It helps us recognize that not everything can be controlled, yet much can be understood, welcomed, and transformed.

I remember when we used to build kites and run through open fields, letting the air strike our faces. It was a way of entering the movement of life itself. Today, we often hold our kites still, without moving, as if we had lost the ability to dance with what flows through us. We have drifted away from nature’s rhythm, forgetting how deeply it knows how to heal.

The image of the garden—central in the Qur’an, but also present in the Bible and in many wisdom traditions—completes this vision. Rain alone is not enough: water by itself does not create balance. Care, attention, and conscious action are required. The mind is the same: it needs to receive, but it also needs to cultivate what grows within. Paradise, described as a garden irrigated by flowing rivers, becomes a metaphor for harmony between heaven and earth, between gift and responsibility, and ultimately for the soul itself.

Seen from this perspective, observing the weather becomes far more than checking a forecast. It can turn into a practice of awareness: recognizing the signs of the outer world in order to better understand the inner one. Rain, wind, and clouds are not neutral events, but tools for slowing down, reflecting, and cultivating our inner garden.

In this sense, the sky is never just data.It is a living text, inviting us to think, to feel, and to participate.

And every time we lift our gaze, we learn something new about the world—and about ourselves.