This morning I found consciousness slowly. The onslaught of thoughts that indicate wakefulness began to replace all traces of the pleasant dream world I had been in. And then I heard the rain, and even my thoughts were drowned out to leave silence, then peace, then sleep.
It was no secret, upon moving to the desert, that rain would be special. If I ran or rode or hiked only on clear days, that would leave me with an average of 1.5 mandatory “off” days per month (although in reality, most of those days would fall in only one month). Yesterday, just days before the winter solstice, I enjoyed a mid-day tempo run in 70 degree sunshine. What I didn’t expect was how different the rain would be compared to my Midwest roots.
Rain (and snow, sleet, even sunshine) in the crop laden areas of the country, is tumultuous. Sometimes it is gentle and fleeting or a wavering misty-drizzle, while at other times it is violent, with sudden, blinding downpours, foundation-shaking thunder, and damaging lightning and tornadoes. Storms ebb and flow, constantly changing.
In the desert, by contrast, it rains how the sun shines. The huge expanse of open sky turns slate gray, and the mountains are obscured from view. Simply put, it rains, but does not storm. There is no violence, just a hard and steady stream that seems unchanging…like it could never change. When it leaves, it fades back into clarity before you have a chance to comprehend that it really is no longer raining. And then it’s gone, without any trickling afterthoughts, leaving only the rarely blooming flowers and a few puddles to mark it’s presence.
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