The river beside our house rages. Brown rapids rise half way up the stone walls that make up the bank. All manner of debris—soda cans, popsicle wrappers, animal parts, sewage—run through it. The river has yet to flood the property, though I have heard the children say, “when the river comes in,” so I assume it will. Last night the rains came down as if in reminder that humans remain limited as expressers of wrath. The deafening thunder would easily silence a scream and came down not in a roar, but as a crash. The sound emitted static—two magnetic forces breaking together.
When I stepped down to my room off the main house, the golden retriever, Bettina, held herself crouched by the door, visibly trembling. She is an outside dog infested with god knows what, but likely ticks and mange. Still, she is sweet and innocent. She gazed up at me with a real prayer of hope. Without a suitable way to explain the colossal sound of thunder to her, I did feel that the least I could do was protect her from it.
I opened the door and issued her in. She watched me, quivering. I got to my knees and stroked my fingers along her jaw. She pawed my knee but stayed outside. “You can come in just this once,” I said, knowing full well that once Bettina discovered life inside, she would be quick to exploit me. She jumped through the door, nearly landing on me. I carefully laid out a bath towel hoping for my friends’ forgiveness, and, in great obeisance, Bettina curled her shaking body on the rectangle of terry cloth and watched the storm intently through the glass.
I got into bed and untied the net, veiling myself under a canopy of mesh. I noticed dull blue-gray marks in the slatted ceiling, where the rain was bleeding through. The rain sounded like b-b gun shells smacking the roof. Loud, light, deep, louder. Visceral, actual, unafraid.
When I crave freedom or sense the possibility of self imposed limitation, I remind myself to dance in the rain. I’ve been witness to intense moments of happiness in the rain. Surrender to rain frees me. Yet to accomplish the bulk of my endeavors, her pervasive wet limits me. I protect myself, holing up inside or carrying myself beneath a poncho. In an effort towards comfort, I stray from rain. In courageous impulse, I run to it.
Water symbolizes the realm of feelings, yet still I allow rain a generosity of spirit that I refuse feelings. Rain appears innocent or at least faultless to me, merely following gravity’s lean to reach the depths of what it touches. A feeling, defined by Merriam-Webster as “the undifferentiated background of one's awareness considered apart from any identifiable sensation, perception, or thought,” appears, like rain, to be innocent. Still, I accord feeling an intrinsic bond to story and even wrongdoing when a strong one sinks into my crevices, making its way beneath and through my resistance. What is full of effort is not my feeling, but my scratchy response, my itch to ward off the sensations, perceptions or thoughts that follow my feelings with action and distraction.
Lying beneath a roof of furious Bali rain led to feeling vulnerable. Next, a desire to be physically held. I inhaled, noticing distaste and my clever proposals of avoidance. I could get up and paint. The power was out, but if my laptop had battery power, I could read by the light of my screen. I could do yoga in the dark!
The rain was immense. I breathed, turned to my right, and curled into a ball. Wow, this is loud. I breathed, turned to my left, and curled into a ball. A symphonic cacophony. I gave up and lay flat on my back. What to do but listen?
If I remain able to block feeling through an almighty enactment of fear, at least nature’s expression remains unabashed. Whether fact is on my side or not, I am certain the rains rushed down without hesitation or apology. In the tropics nature presents with force. In contrast, Colorado appears dry, sunny and temperate. On the wide planes of Colorado, I see slight movements across a distance. In Indonesia, nature is boisterous and surrounding, breathing me every second. I feel no pressure to sound into the silence. I listen. I am quiet. Relieved.
I am reminded that I am not separate. I cannot escape. Water leaks through the roof and onto the floor. Wet drops find holes in the canopy of mesh, finally holding court in my sheets. I wake up the next morning and discover a gut threatening nest of ants and their white larvae on the tile. The tropics magnify aspects of feeling so literally it is impossible to remain numb. Meanwhile, it becomes easier to accept. To flow. Dance.
I crawled out of bed and sat on the tile next to Bettina. “Beh-tee-na,” I soothed, “You’re okay.” I pet her thick itchy coat. Her trembling diminished slightly. We sat together, she and I, gazing out at the rain from disparate worlds, in unison.
