That special kind of rain Saturday, October 14, 2023
The rain comes slowly at first, a few drops splattering on
the concrete in my back yard, then as a steady drizzle, and finally a downpour.
This is not the warm spring rain that we welcome as a final
relief to the chill of winter, but the introduction of the new season and the
threat of cold we can expect.
Columbus Day weekend and our visit to Cape May marks the
change, one marker Mollenkott, my literary professor at college used to dread,
telling me how when I reached her age, I would dread it as well, Autumn
signally the end of life, while I admired the change of leaves.
I’m less a fan of summer than she was, or for that matter
spring, all symbolic of the dreariness of life, while dramatic autumn puts obstacles
in front of us, a challenge to survive the cold, we lasting out the worst life
can offer in order to see the spring again.
There is beauty in this transition, a meloncoly that I’ve
felt almost from the day I first opened my eyes, craving those days when I
could look out at the changing weather from the protection of my room in the
old house or from the porch, as if the worst of life could not touch me.
I still feel that way, even though I’m now passed the age
Mollenkott was when she gave me her dire warning.
In LA, I missed the rain most, even though winters there
tended to have rain. It was never the same in a place that has no changing
seasons, just the endless grind of sameness Autumn here defies.
I like Portland better because of the rain, and would sometimes
stroll those streets without umbrella like a plant desperate for nourishment.
Now, I look out at the back yard from a room surrounded by
windows, taking in the change, as the ivy that covers our fence and the walls
of neighboring buildings turns red, and then eventually brown, before finally
seeing each leaf drop to the ground, setting up our Thanksgiving ritual of
raking and clearing away the poke berry in order to welcome winter and set up
regrowth for next year.
I still get the same chills I got as a kid, feeling safe and
secure, when in this life, nothing is safe enough or secure enough, our world
constantly bickering over what is real or unreal, who is worthy or not.
I feel sad in a strangely pleasant way, as if I need these
moments, this rain, in order that at some point, I might feel happy again.
This time of year always sets the tone for upcoming year, foreshadowing
some issues I might face, a phone call one year with a friend whose death in
January will make that call all the more important, or the hints of medical emergencies
that might end me up in surgery the following spring.
When I lived in a rooming house in Montclair, I used to walk
out into the local park just to feel the breeze and the kiss of drizzle, a
strange kind of love making I crave.
In the end, it is these moments that mean the most to me,
the sadness that promises to bring joy eventually.
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