Last night I fell asleep to the continuous thrum of rain on the roof, punctuated by wind-driven drops clattering on the metal chimney. Snug and warm in my bed, under relatively new shingles, I felt safe and cozy. Then I ventured out this morning as daylight reluctantly poked its way through the clouds.
The world is wet–awash in rain blown over the mountains from the Pacific. Inches of rain have fallen on feet of snow. All of it melts and follows gravity down the slopes. The intrepid crew of snow rangers has been venturing out to post signs and make sure all is set for recreationists who will come with the next snowfall. This is the first time I have worn tall rubber irrigation boots to do this job. The super-saturated slush is almost knee-high in places, although ankle deep is average. We slosh through, raincoats zipped and hoods pulled up. It rains and rains and rains, creating a wet misty world in tones of black, white and gray. The brown of overflowing creeks is a surprising splash of color. Water gushes over cutbanks in hundreds of mini-waterfalls, rushes down ditches, pools in low places under the trees. Snow takes on a faint blue tinge from being so full of water.
It’s wild out there. I have always loved stormy weather and I’m not sure why. Something about the primal energy of it speaks to the primal part of me. I love that nature is in charge. Weather can’t be controlled. It pulls the rug out from under our human hubris. I am sorry for the loss and suffering cause by storms and flooding. Still, it doesn’t seem as senseless as the loss and suffering recently caused by humans around the world.
Perhaps storms remind me of the continuously changing world, and offer some kind of solace from the grief I feel when listening to the news. Coming home all wet and cold reminds me that I am alive and that is good. This place where I live has been wet and flooded and wintery before, and will be again. That knowledge is a kind of island, a place to stand while watching it all flow by.