Summer Rain

Friday evening, I chose the rain jacket instead of the umbrella. Tornado watch and gray skies and not enough energy to fight the flight of a cheap umbrella, if and when.

I chose the light blue NorthFace rain jacket I bought in the LLBean flagship store, because of course, and packed tightly in my overnight bag for my Spring Break 2008 trip to DC. The one that got wet even in my bag, when we got caught in a downpour in NYC while running for our train at Penn Station from our train at Grand Central, because of course. A downpour so drenching it soaked through our bags and flooded our clothes. We ran blocks in this rain for the train, worried we would miss it. Two blocks in we laughed and turned our faces up to the rain and screeched. A release. When we arrived, still wet, in Annapolis, we put all of our clothes in the dryer, including the rain jacket, because of course.

Friday evening, on my seven minute walk home from the subway, the sky spit a couple of times and then burst open. Within less than a minute, my rolled up pants soaked up all the rain and then proceeded to drip down my calves and puddle around my feet. My sandals went from slippery to sponges, pooling my toes in rain water with every step. I shoved my bag under my rain jacket and hoped my phone in my pocket would repel at least some of the water. It occurred to me that I had never actually worn the rain jacket in the rain. I didn’t know if it was water proof or water resistant and it seemed to be raining so hard that it almost didn’t matter.

I thought about running. But there wasn’t really a point. I could not get any wetter. The strand of hair hanging out of my hood dripped onto my jacket and rivers ran down the front creating an almost-waterfall into the sidewalk. The puddles at intersections too large to jump over, and rivers of rain flowed against the curb, so I walked through them.

I walked home with a slow step and enjoyed the rain. I could not save myself from the it, I could not get any wetter, so I walked home and enjoyed having the sidewalk to myself — everyone else huddled under overhangs with their umbrellas in front of them as shields.

I remembered the early years of high school, before we had cars, when we would walk in the rain to the beach, hoping for a downpour. How we planned to walk on the rainiest days, miles downtown, miles back, in the warm rain and drenched clothes. How alive it made us feel — squealing, faces turned up the sky, tiny streams flowing down our faces. The warmth of the rain cooling the hotness of our skin and the steam rising from the pavement. The smell of the first downpour of the day. The heaviness of our clothes wrapped around us, clinging to us, how the fabric feels so differently when it’s warm and wet and heavy.

I walked home and let my jeans be warm and wet and heavy. I let the streams roll down my legs and waterfall off my jacket. I thought about turning my face up to the sky and squealing, the way I did when I was 14.

When I got home, I squished up the stairs and left my sponge shoes at the doorway of my apartment. I peeled off my pants in my bedroom and learned my rain jacket, after all these years, is waterproof and not just water resistant. I didn’t have a drop of rain on my top. I took it off anyway and thought maybe it was a bit of a waste — this rain jacket that worked so well. I took my shirt off anyway. And I missed the feel of the warm rivers of rain on my face, falling over my shoulders, and drenching my shirt.

I missed the feel of the total immersion in a downpour. The kind that drenches you from head to toe and even the rain jacket, packed so carefully in the middle of your overnight bag. The laughter, the squeals, the release.

Showing Up

I’ve spent the majority of today in bed, inhaling Momastary.com, The Racial State, Ben & Jerry’s ice cream — chocolate therapy, thankyouverymuch — and salad. It’s allllllll about balance, I told him.

I’m slightly obsessed with Glennon Doyle Melton — I’m re-reading her book Carry On, Warrior even though I just finished it about a week ago. That’s what I’ve been doing this past year though: finishing a book and then immediately starting it again. Sometimes the first time around isn’t enough to learn even a fraction of what it is one needs to learn.

Glennon says some version of this (see, still haven’t really learned it all): Show up, be brave, be kind, do the next right thing for you, rest, repeat. So that’s what I’m doing. Brene Brown and Elizabeth Gilbert and Martha Beck and Rob Bell and Oprah all seem to be saying the same thing. I know because I’m reading and re-reading and listening hard — podcasts and super soul sessions are the same thing as reading, right? This day in age, no? I’m old, I’m learning. (I don’t think that’s such a bad thing.)

Last year, on this weekend, I watched fireworks in front of a cornfield and thought I knew things. I almost want to laugh out loud at that thought now, except I’m trying to be kinder to myself — a year: what a difference. All the things I got wrong, and hopefully a few I got right. I got a couple of the most important things right, that much I know.

I know because I’ve been very quiet. When I’m unsure now (which is often), I get still, I get quiet, immediately. Or as soon as possible. And I move through the next few minutes. Sometimes I take a large leap and move through the next few hours. That’s it; that’s all I’ll be doing for a while, and I’m so very good with that. (Good with it, not good at it — there’s a vital difference.)

I’ve made a thousand mistakes in this past year. I’ve said and done and been hurtful things. And I’ve been forgiven. I’ve been loved anyway.

Last summer, I learned that every cell in my body is actually made of glass and every cell can actually shatter. Those shattered glass cells can prick and poke and scratch and pierce every inch of your skin from the inside out. But over time, they melt and become heavy molten and although it feels far too heavy to carry on most days, you can, in fact, carry it. And eventually, ever so slowly, it drains out of you, and becomes less heavy.

As it drains, it takes away all the old and leaves wide open spaces for new. New feels as new is — uncomfortable and uncertain. But it isn’t the hot, heavy molten glass, and all the empty space is a bit airy, a bit light, and there’s plenty of room for the uncomfortable and the uncertain to hang out and just be.

That’s what I do now, mostly. I just be.

And I listen for myself in the stillness, so I can show up as myself.

It’s that simple (and yet still, always, hard — I’m good with that).

(And there is love, too, also, as well.)

—————

As a reminder to myself, if/when I should need it again, and to anyone else who may need it, this helped me get still and quiet, so I could hear myself:

1. Therapy
2. Yoga
3. Meditation
4. Routine (with a strong emphasis on sleep)

Other things that helped:
— Reading (Brene Brown — Rising Strong, Martha Beck — Leaving the Saints, & Pema Chodron — Things Fall Apart, over and over again)
— Coloring
— Watching the bears for hours because there’s something about nature that’s healing (http://explore.org/live-cams/player/brown-bear-salmon-cam-brooks-falls)
— Saying yes to myself and no to everyone else