Downpours

Tonight, as Kwok and I walked the dogs, a downpour released. In the distance the sun shined, seemingly warming the drops as they fell. By the end of the walk, there were no dry hairs on my head, my jeans stuck to my thighs, and I could do nothing but stupidly smile as drops batted my eyelashes and fell onto my teeth. All three dogs had different reactions--Janie, cold and damp, wanted to get home as quickly as possible; Benji, the old man, seemingly cringed and trudged on; Elu... Elu seemed to gain superpowers, caffeinated energy, from the water. His fluffy, metrosexual appearance and attitude disappeared... and appeared the rough and tumble spaniel--and one that ran at full speed, jumping logs and splashing through puddles--smiling through literal canines.

I was reminded of Tim--the beautiful rainstorm we experienced on Lake Michigan shores in 2006. I have just searched through the entries from my old blog. This is what I posted at 2:26am on Friday, 25 August 2006:

My hair is the most beautiful curly it can ever be--natural from fresh rain. After a day of making Ethiopian food and hanging around Tim and my mom, Tim and I drive to a place that most would consider the middle of nowhere--somewhere lost between Manistee and Ludington, Fern Gulley and the shores of Lake Michigan.

College friends from Theta Chi are having pre-post Wild Weekend and Tim and I find them for a visit at eight o'clock this evening. (Don't ask if you don't know about "pre-post Wild Weekend.") It is raining and I tend the fire while Mikey gets more firewood. People chat abundantly and I am my usual quieter-than-normal self, as I often am with the college crew.

I was a bit worried about driving so late as you can now feel the rush of fall. It's more than cloud formations and early darkness. You can feel it nipping at your bones, skating past your eyelids. It's something as simple as the way the smells of spice linger in the house after a meal. I worried about the rain, deer--the sense of danger of which fall reminds.

I wondered why I was going.... I felt like I shouldn't be in the car sitting passenger when such strange worries rushed my mind, but I said nothing--not even a word about the unease of the Pink Floyd album playing in the background.

I am reminded of winter.... when I returned from San Francisco a bit more vulnerable, a bit more broken, a bit more susceptible to the cold. On a cold, frozen night, I leave Theta Chi, hugging Tim goodbye to return to Wright--the rickety old stairs killing my left knee a little more with each step. Pain stabs through me. I am halfway to Wright, an icicle in motion when I realize I left my keys in Tim's room. My rekindled spirituality begs the question of the purpose... and when I get there, Tim fixes my disheveled scarf before I leave again. I'm left with a sense of warmth and know I am loved. Later, as I write about it in my personal journal, I know the purpose--so well.

Tonight, we take a stroll through backwoods not only to get to the campsite, but through even deeper forest to find valleys and shallows and crests of dunes. We traverse despite the rain, our wet shoes, jean absorbing water, rain-damp hair.... Each footprint marks the wet sand and brings the dry, tan speckles forward--enmeshes them with the wet, brown peaks. We find the lake in a thunderstorm--stumbling through lightning and scattered flashlight beams. I stand and watch as the lightning bursts and there are grays and greens, tans and blues--white caps become more than sound and it is a thing of beauty worth each micro-second. I wonder if it would be too beautiful for one to hold for more than the brief moments we grasp it. The rain comes harder with each passing minute and soon there is a down pour.... and I open my arms and suck the rain into my new coat--worn for the first time this evening. I taste my home face wash as it flows off my face--substituted by rain. There isn't even a chill in my body because I knew that this was purpose. Arms outstretched to the rain and bursts of color on Lake Michigan.

Sometimes it seems as if the rain heals more than words... than any form of medication. In my mind, under a canopy of leaking leaves on a trail turned river, I said hello to God today... even though I remain unsure of who or what God is... but God, at the very least for me, is warm rain.

I leave you with today's Writer's Almanac, as well as a link to a song I've only recently discovered.


*****
Sunday at the End of Summer
by Howard Nemeroy

Last night the cold wind and the rain blew
Hard from the west, all night, until the creek
Flooded, tearing the end of a wooden bridge
Down to hang, trembling, in the violent water.

This morning, with the weather still in rage,
I watched workmen already at repairs.
Some hundred of us came around to watch,
With collars turned against the rain and wind.

Down the wild water, where men stood to the knees,
We saw come flooding hollyhock and vine,
Sunflowers tall and broken, thorny bramble
And pale lilies cracked along the stalk.

Ours was the Sunday's perfect idleness
To watch those others working; who fought, swore,
Being threshed at hip and thigh, against that trash

Of pale wild flowers and their drifting legs.


"Sunday at the End of Summer" by Howard Nemerov, from New and Selected Poems. © The University of Chicago Press, 1960