rain. . .again. and your daily miracle: gulls in a field
Martin's parents left this morning after a busy, wonderful ten days. We rode the ferry, poked around seaside downtowns, walked along at least four beaches (and collected lots of beautiful glacial rocks), visited gardens bright in the mist, even drove up to Olympic National Park and strolled a gorgeous, wide path over old bridges and through old-growth forest dripping with moss, crescendoing at the most breathtaking waterfall I've ever seen.
It was sunny two of those ten days. The rest of the time it was deeply grey and rainy. A few days ago I found Martin's Mom sitting at the kitchen table, gazing glassy-eyed out at the rain. "You look like you've got SAD," I said. They're from Houston and used to their share of sun. We immediately took measures and went for a hike, and we all felt full of energy and hope again. That's what will save me here--getting out IN the weather, not just staring AT the weather.
But as Martin's dad and I discussed, the rain is not depressing. . .at least not yet. It's really lovely--it makes you want to walk in it. And since this part of the world grows dense with evergreens overhead and with color underfoot (due to steady rainfall and mildish temperatures), the rain makes everything just glow.
In any case, the northwest seems as if it's one of the only places untouched by storms at the moment. I just corresponded with someone yesterday in Rhode Island who reported that, at high tide, most of the downtown waterfront was about 100 yards further inland from where it had been; he said they'd been watching "20 foot waves being thrashed by the wind."
I compare that to the gentle waves that lap at the pier and gurgles about the boats in our downtown. I can only imagine such ferocity.
This morning the girls and I skirted puddles (well, I didn't, as I was wearing my Bogs :) on our walk to school, our hoods pulled up to the steady, light rain. The practice field was empty of students but full of seagulls, poking around in the newly mown grass. Elspeth pointed at them and chuckled, "Maybe they're playing soccer!" but Merry said they were probably enjoying their first course before heading across the path to Strawberry Fields for more delicious worms or whatever pleased them. Soon they rose and flew above our heads, crying softly in the fog, and I remembered that the sea was not far away, and that the mountains still rose around us, even though we could not see them. And I realized, too, that if the birds could be so content with the weather, I would learn to be content too.
It was easy to feel content walking home through ripe maples and oaks and towering spruce and pine. The gutters rushed with water and the streets were quiet. When I was a block away, I tipped back my hood to feel the rain on my face, and that was good too.
It was sunny two of those ten days. The rest of the time it was deeply grey and rainy. A few days ago I found Martin's Mom sitting at the kitchen table, gazing glassy-eyed out at the rain. "You look like you've got SAD," I said. They're from Houston and used to their share of sun. We immediately took measures and went for a hike, and we all felt full of energy and hope again. That's what will save me here--getting out IN the weather, not just staring AT the weather.
But as Martin's dad and I discussed, the rain is not depressing. . .at least not yet. It's really lovely--it makes you want to walk in it. And since this part of the world grows dense with evergreens overhead and with color underfoot (due to steady rainfall and mildish temperatures), the rain makes everything just glow.
In any case, the northwest seems as if it's one of the only places untouched by storms at the moment. I just corresponded with someone yesterday in Rhode Island who reported that, at high tide, most of the downtown waterfront was about 100 yards further inland from where it had been; he said they'd been watching "20 foot waves being thrashed by the wind."
I compare that to the gentle waves that lap at the pier and gurgles about the boats in our downtown. I can only imagine such ferocity.
This morning the girls and I skirted puddles (well, I didn't, as I was wearing my Bogs :) on our walk to school, our hoods pulled up to the steady, light rain. The practice field was empty of students but full of seagulls, poking around in the newly mown grass. Elspeth pointed at them and chuckled, "Maybe they're playing soccer!" but Merry said they were probably enjoying their first course before heading across the path to Strawberry Fields for more delicious worms or whatever pleased them. Soon they rose and flew above our heads, crying softly in the fog, and I remembered that the sea was not far away, and that the mountains still rose around us, even though we could not see them. And I realized, too, that if the birds could be so content with the weather, I would learn to be content too.
It was easy to feel content walking home through ripe maples and oaks and towering spruce and pine. The gutters rushed with water and the streets were quiet. When I was a block away, I tipped back my hood to feel the rain on my face, and that was good too.
Comments
Martin remembers you well as a "good poet." That's high praise from a writer who isn't terribly effusive. And apparently your husband studied under a good friend of ours and a colleague of Martin's.
I've lived through six freezing midwestern winters (five in Chicago, one in Iowa), and I must say your task of staying positive in the midst of such sustaining cold is a mammoth one. I remember waiting anxiously for the first robin to appear during that freezing year in Iowa, and when he finally appeared on our lawn, I may have kissed him (I'm not sure).