Rain
I remember, growing up, standing out on the hill by my grandparents’ home and watching the rain coming down on the freshly-plowed field across the road. That smell of fresh-turned sod and rain has always held a strange feeling of comfort for me.
I joined the Army back in 1984 and headed off to New Jersey for Basic Training, and then Washington, D.C. I ended up (that first term) at Fort Hood, Texas. I can still remember the rain there. It was the first time I ever experienced heavy, tropical-type rain; the rain that could actually sting as it hit your skin.
In 1988, I was at Military Intelligence School in San Angelo, TX. I would sit on the balcony outside my barracks room and watch the lightning arcing across the West Texas skies in late October. The rain was a welcome respite out there in the desert-like heat. Even the rain, though, was warm. Still, that was the first time that I actually enjoyed running in the rain; the warmth of it still cooler than my heated body and face, tasting of nature, pure and simple and . . . melancholy.
I began to associate rain with thought and emotion around that time, I think. I was entering a new stage in my life and there was a new set of pressures and responsibilities on me that I had never before faced. The rain, when it came, was a welcome relief that allowed me to linger in the music of the world–the pitter-patter of the raindrops, the boom of the thunder–losing myself in thought.
I arrived in Central America in the spring of 1990. It was there, in the lush verdancy of the jungle, that I came to truly appreciate what rain could be, what it could do. I was a smoker, then. I would sit for hours beneath the bohios, lingering over my cigarettes and stare out at the rain as it fell heavy and steady (which it did for days at a time), counting my blessings, wallowing in my loneliness, or just thinking about what tomorrow might bring.
On missions in the jungle, it was not unusual to spend a week soaked to the bone. Sometimes it was overwhelming, all that rain. Sometimes, it was the most beautiful thing in the world.
Sitting on a high hill in southern Panama, or staring out at the coast near the Costa Rican border . . . or, standing on the top of a mountain in El Boquete overlooking the miles and miles of coffee groves: the rain came and washed everything clean. There were times when it literally felt as if it were washing my soul, cleansing me of all that weighed me down and made me feel lost beneath the dirt of life. I fell in love with the rain. It became my friend and confidant. God bless the rain.
Now, looking back on those moments when the rain allowed me to just be: those were some of my finest and most vulnerable moments. They seem lost in the past now. Life has pushed those moments aside; yet, I long for them still. I look forward to the rain as one would look forward to seeing a long-lost friend for the first time in ages.
I crave those moments when the rain washes me clean again.
December 20th, 2008 at 4:49 pm
when i was little, daddy used to always go outside on the porch when it rained, and just sit and watch the rain. until it ended, or it got real late. and on the side porch, i remember standing there with him just watching the rain. i’d sit on the swing and wonder ‘why is he just sitting there watching…rain??’ but, it is very calming, relaxing, and is kind of like a ‘hey, it’s ok to get emotional, it’s ok to let things bother u, it’s only human, just let it all out’
just thought i’d share that bit of memories with u.
hope ya’ll have a merry christmas and get all u hoped for!
i would say give me ur address so i could write u, but i’m sure ur too busy to write back.
but, i could still send christmas cards and such, but only if u want to.
talk to ya later
crystal