A Past I Remember Only in My Body
adversity and rain
At the close of July I’m remembering how spring swept in, cool and sunny, here in the Northeast United States. It turned hot quickly, though, and just after the summer solstice, higher than normal temperatures baked our lawns and gardens. When the earth couldn’t take it any longer, the skies showed mercy with heavy rains, and I was grateful my garden flowers, the birds, and small critters could finally drink deeply. I have a healthy respect for nature and its power, its destructive ability, as well as its life-giving nourishment and beauty.
Reflecting On
Summer Rain
The patter of rain on the roof, on leaves, in puddles creates a certain kind of calm in my body. A lullaby sung by ancient water seeped into the ground then evaporated into the sky, a cycle over thousands of years. It weaves its way into my lungs, my nerves, my beating heart, fills me with longing which cannot be eased because its echo stems from when I was one with the stars, before I crawled along the ground, before I walked upright. The rain is in me, in my blood and bones. It feeds my tissue. I know this instinctively, but during my day to day Iife, I can’t name it. I know it as a feeling, hollow but fulfilling at the same time.
Showers of rain, the way it pools on the cobblestone, the way it eddies in the uneven lawn, the drumming of a downpour or the whisper of drizzle mesmerizes me. I can’t help but pause and listen or stop and gaze at the rivulets carving pathways through the earth.
A blaze of lightning followed by the rolling boom of thunder on a hot summer evening sends primal shivers along my spine, and when the trees thrash with nature’s wild fury, I’m reminded how insignificant I am. Insignificant, yet a part of it all. My body is mostly water, mostly rain: when I drink, I’m replenished, when I cry, I lose a part of it again.
When it rains I’m filled with a longing for a past I remember only in the cells of my body. But those memories rise to the surface in the form of enchantment over and over again.
The Heart of It
When I was younger I thought I could avoid adversity. There was nothing worse than a failure or rejection of some kind, whether it was from my parents, a teacher or a friend, it would send me into a tailspin. Over the years I grew into accepting myself and learned to handle adversity a bit better. But when I started writing and submitting my stories again, those same insecurities returned. A rejection letter would cause weeks of weeping and self-abuse, telling myself over and over what a terrible writer I was and that no one would ever publish me. Even after I published a few times I thought it was dumb luck, never to be repeated.
But there was magic inside me. It was an enchantment that had taken hold of me when I was a child grasping my first crayon and scribbling pictures and words onto paper. This magic was wild and untamable. It couldn’t be held under for long, and bubbled to the surface after every storm that washed away my confidence. I was thinking about this the other day while watching the rain pelt my flowers with a force that bent them all the way to the ground, their beautiful faces pushed into the mud, their leaves drooping as if exhausted from trying to hold them upright. I staked some of the taller ones so their stems wouldn’t break, worried over them while the wind howled and the rain hammered down.
When daylight broke the next morning, my garden picked itself up. The blooms opened themselves, bright red petals like warmed cheeks in the sun, leaves like uplifted arms. The magic inside them wouldn’t let them give up. They were more powerful than the day before. And the ones I had staked seemed grateful for the assist, and stood even taller, refreshed and ready to greet the day.
As much as I love rain, there are times when it knocks down my plants or floods my basement. The trees around me sometimes fall over when the ground becomes too soggy, and sometimes they crash through my roof. At these times I need help to make it through. My friends and family hold me up during the downpour.
If you read my newsletter, you know I recently finished a new story and I’ve started sending it out to magazines. I haven’t heard anything yet, it’s too early, but I’m sure there will be days of drizzle and days of torrential downpour. I’ve learned how to appreciate adversity since I was a kid, and I’ve learned how to care for myself. Maybe one day a sparkling ray of sun will arrive in my inbox. Until then, at least I have my umbrella. And my magic.
Until next time,
Jan
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