Something most people might not know about me is that I love the rain. Which is really excellent today:
Not only does it give me the chance to engage in some solid tea drinking:
but it’s one of the things in the natural world I find instantly soothing. Some people like waves, but having done my fair share of beach-adjacent camping in my life, I find them too noisy, disruptive and chaotic. Rain, though, is soft. It patters down onto windows and roofs. Gentle.
The sound of it on my house is comforting, as it washes away everything – the dirt R collected on his bike ride yesterday, all the cobwebs around the guttering, my somewhat emotionally charged last few weeks, bad arguments. It all gets swept away in the cleanse. When it stops, life emerges. Washing can go out on the line again, the bunnies that live in the block across from my house come out and have plenty of fresh plants to snack on, a fresh perspective can be found. And petrichor. One of my favourite words, favourite smells, and was used in one of my favourite episodes of Doctor Who.
Being outside in the rain is a courageous act. Even with all of my Goretex lined apparel, I still feel brave, cheeky almost, tempting the universe. Go on you, try and get me wet! Inside my coat hood, I smile to myself, knowing I’m safe and dry, and hearing the drops trickle down my protective layer. It’s a divisive factor too – only those truly prepared, mad or both venture outside in a torrential downpour.
One of my favourite moments of this year happened in the rain. R is getting me overnight hike-trained, as with all my lovely new strength from barre I feel my body is prepared to handle the devastating but beautiful terrain on my home state. We did a hike in Southwest National Park in April, and as we got closer and closer to the start of the track, it was obvious it was going to be a slightly different challenge than we’d anticipated. Throughout the hike, in a departure from usual form, I confidently took each large step up the side of the mountain, not slipping or faulting once. I reveled in the challenge of having water splashing on me from every angle, and made it to the top and back quicker than R had imagined. I was officially given the ‘real bushwalker’ moniker that day too – because its not a real hike in Tasmania unless you’re getting rained on in 4 different directions and at risk of getting blown off the side of a mountain. Rain now speaks of my strength and delight on that day.
Above all, rain is a reminder that we are merely occupants in this world. We do not own it, can never think to control it, and and can only ever marvel at the natural forces at play.