Thursday, April 29, 2010

Rain, rain

Weston had to play in stickland (mudland) yesterday but he grew out of his yellow slicker last fall, so Dave put him in a garbage bag! Ha! I think his boot is coming off in this picture and he's trying to put it back on.

I never thought I'd say this but "rain, rain, --go away!"
Growing up I don't remember any leaks in the houses I lived in in Oregon.
Now, maybe that's 'cause they were Paradise Homes, but really --Eugene had a LOT of rain.
Now, with just two days of heavy rain, so many buildings in Rosebud are leaking and causing damage.
Alas, this "liquid gold" as the farmers call it is now more of a pain.
I sat in the church for a while after my final Faith and Art class, trying to dignify the yearlong journey we had all embarked on and had now come to an end. The seam in the wood slats on the ceiling were drip-drip-dripping into an assortment of tupperware, glass, and plastic. Sitting there in the semi-darkness with the various pitches plopping (some containers had more water than others) almost made me weep. I couldn't budge. Something in me wasn't done; wasn't ready to leave that place of solitude and and water drops.
I love water.
I'm told there's an ionic discharge that water gives off that is essential for balance in humans. I don't know how that works, but I believe it.
Growing up I would often gaze out at the raindrops making tiny puddles in the canal. The silence and the green water, still show up in my dreams to symbolize home.
Back in Chemainus I was drawn to the beach roughly five days a week. And when the tide was high and lapping at the shells and small stones near the edge of Kin Park, I had to frequently resist the urge to dive in. I don't know what would come over me, but I'd want to get IN that clear water. "Don't you feel an incredible urge to jump in?" I'd ask Dave. He'd usually smile and shake his head at the obvious differences between us. "That's the mermaid in you" he'd say.
Well, whatever it is, I am usually starved for water out here in southern Alberta. Most mornings I wake up with my tongue pressed to the top of my mouth and my skin cracks and dries quicker out here too.
But there's something about the rain. It's colder, and although I usually welcome it's wetness and the aroma it brings to the pavement, this storm feels mean. Even the puddles don't welcome me as they should.
I guess, as I look back, I realize every other end of the year at Rosebud has been sunny and nostalgic with warm golden tones. I don't like the grey, and I thought I would always find it familiar and comforting.
Although I did love Alysa's frolic out in the downpour yesterday, it was almost in defiance of the weather for me instead of embracing it. Nonetheless it was a brave and crazy dance, and I'm grateful for her spunk and sense of adventure.
Today as I rode to class the rain pelted me: little needle points on my cheek as the almost snow beads were chased by the strong north wind. I didn't like it. The wind nearly pushed my wheels out from under twice!
But the pitter patter once you're inside is really wonderful.
The pitter patter and the creaks and groans of the church as the wind buffets its back but the sanctuary remains just that.
Now I'm off to collect my boys from the bus.
"Please avoid the puddles!" I'll say, and Weston will sheepishly grin because his socks will be already soaked through.
I hope I'm not getting too old, but this is some rain.
I think I'd better make the best of it, because I don't think it's going away anytime soon.

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