Learning to Love the Rain

I grew up, and still live, in what we — as in humans— have decided to call a coastal temperate rainforest which as you can I imagine by the name, rains¹. Sometimes a lot.

And it doesn’t seem inherent to my nature to love rain. Now the sun. Oh, me and the sun get on swimmingly. It’s one of those effortless relationships, ya know? Like we could go years not seeing each other, not even talking on the phone, and once reunited? Just like old times. Easy. Natural. Comfortable.

The rain? Now that’s more of an enigma for me. As a kid I literally dreamt of California. Inundated with skateboard media I longed for that dusty, dry, coastal desert air.

But the sun doesn’t have a sound.

Of all the sensual, earthly experiences we can have, the sun lacks any auditory stimulae. The howl or whisper of wind, the crunch of snow, the putter patter of rain.

I’m currently sitting on my patio, parked in my little packable camp chair, hunkered under the maybe two and a half foot overhang that — mostly — keeps me dry, and my ears are filled with the loving taps of thousands, perhaps millions?! Of individual drops of water.

It’s a sound that fills me with so much love and I suppose nostalgia. It’s like I’m hearing all of the times in my life that I’ve noticed the lovely din of dropping water all at once.

The sound of rain on the family camping tent that we used as kids — that my parents used in their twenties — canvas and not exactly water proof.

The sound of rain on the metal roof of my partners family cabin — oh how the metal and water resonate so well together! Or, the rain on the metal roof of a car as the windshield hammers into the falling liquid.

The light almost hum of a gentle mist on the polyester or nylon of an umbrella, as I am walking through the grey dampness of Vancouver.

Or, the sound of the rain, when there was just enough wind to make it come in on an angle and hit the plastic shingles of the house I grew up in. Such a hollow, round echo that it made compared to the sharp, pointed ting of a metal roof.

Or, simply the dullness of the rain hitting the ground, be it earth or asphalt, as all the vibration seems to be sucked up and absorbed.

Right now I hear all of it. In every drop. Each one containing the totality of all my memories. And I can’t help be filled with gratitude. Despite my coldness and dampness I am filled with comfort and friendship with that lovely sound. How strange it would be to live somewhere where it was a rarity!

Even as I write this, the pace and concentration of the rain has ebbed and flowed in its own stochastic rhythm, which feels so alive and natural and not at all mechanical.

And that’s its own kind of comfort. And I simply love it. I want to embrace it and hug the rain and let it now how much its presence matters, how the sound it makes as it hits the earth is perhaps the most homely, warm sound I know.

Perhaps I don’t need to learn to love the rain at all. Really, I think I’ve loved it all along.