The Rain between Us

The news was out. Countries were closing down, barring their borders. The sick are coming for us. Hide, isolate. News outlets and gossip columns alike were spreading fear among the world. Everywhere I turned some warning was staring me down.

I lost my job and was in self-quarantine. The white walls and uneven tile floor of my basement apartment wore at the edges of my mind. I couldn’t stay in the city; it didn’t take long to make even my introverted soul to feel trapped. By my walls, but mostly by the overwhelming feeling of doom. I wanted to be able to walk more than five meters before running out of space, and to smell the air again.

Pulling out my old camping backpack, in a rush I stuffed it full of clothes and activities. I shoved my pencils, notebooks, coloured markers, and a couple of books in with no real organization. Grabbing my cat and locking my apartment I put my backpack in the trunk, and got into my car.

I left the city, traveling east in my little hatchback to my mum’s house. The highway was long and winding, at times it seemed endless. I would turn one corner to find the road disappearing around another bend, with no line of sight for where it might go. It didn’t take long for the houses and big box stores to fade away and be replaced by tall trees, growing bright and green. I roll down my windows, pressing play on a sound track of soft, comforting music.

The road begins to pass by small towns and villages. “Thank you Truckers” signs now had a friend in the “Thank you Essential Workers” sign next door. I sighed, wishing safety for those souls stuck without it, and drive on.

I wanted to stop and walk among these older buildings, to be among things built when the world was still wild and unstolen. A part of me longs for the nostalgia that comes with these places only the locals know about. I don’t want to risk myself or these people so instead I slow down a little more to watch the worn architecture pass by; continuing on.

It takes a day of driving but soon I safely park in the driveway at my mum’s, just outside of a Canadian small town. Tucked in a little valley not far from a major highway and surrounded by mountains, it offers a welcome and needed change from my own white walls.

Stepping out of the car to fresh air and fields of green, I smile up at the sun and take a moment to feel the warmth spreading over my face. A noise pulls me back to earth. Out across the hay fields, I turn to see my mum's horses calling out a greeting. Suddenly I am the receiver of tail wags and sloppy kisses; the dogs have realized the farm has a visitor. My mum greets me with a hug and kisses to rival the dog's. I am welcome.

On these 8 acres of land, the quarantine rules seem less confining. Suddenly my days aren’t taken up by white walls, instead open fields, a garden, horses, rabbits, dogs, cats and one curious parrot. I greet the horses and they offer kisses by pressing their muzzle against my own nose. Rabbits are soft and often come to check what I’m doing. The dogs seem to always be underfoot, or off playing a game of catch. A parrot follows you as you work, his cage is never locked. Cats always appear to happily use you as a perch if the day lets you rest for a couple minutes.

The world is open here. Mountains and sky offer an ever changing landscape. Trees on the mountain brighten with new spring growth, and the grass almost reaches my waist. Birds, voles, and mice move about the property, trying to steal grain. The weather here seems to operate on a pendulum, swinging from one to the next. My eye is always drawn back to mountains and sky.

Sometimes I finish waking up or pass my evenings sitting in the front door way. It opens to a view of the front lawn, partially taken up by a large spruce, behind is the road, above the mountains rise. This door sits well above the ground, as there was once a deck here. All of which make it a particularly good place to sit.

So I sit here and watch the mountains. They don’t seem very tall, but we are well above the ocean here. Clouds seem to permanently stick to their treetops, almost like pieces of wool stuck to a brush, being gently pulled along by the wind. Sometimes it seems like an entire day is spent with grey clouds over our heads. Others it pelts down and just as you reach cover the sun is already shining again.

Watching the rain fall from the border of this front door, always feels like a revival to me. Spring showers make everything smell fresh and true. Downpours that have you rushing to find even the smallest shelter, because for the brief time the world you know is crashing at your feet and it’s all you can do not to be pulled down too. Thunder, lightning and raging winds claim the skys, flashing bright enough to chase away the dark for just a second; loud enough to silence all other noise - even thought.

I find it surprising how people will give me strange looks when I tell them that I like the rain; and I’ve been pondering this, as I sit and watch from my lonely door. In a way, I’m trying to convey a bit of who I am, here and now. How everything I feel makes me what I am.

Perhaps, this is all an attempt to say something when my words always taste awkward on my tongue. It conveys a small glimpse of me; but is it possible for others to grasp it all? What leads to those strange looks?

Are there others that think about the sound of rain, and how it changes? From a drizzle on a puddle, to a storm pounding on the earth and pavement. On a window. On a tent. An umbrella.

Do they think of the smell of rain? Wet grass. Ozone from lightning. Dry earth being soaked. Do they think about a location? Tropical. Temperate. A lake, ocean, or river. Do they think about rain stinging your cheeks and nose in a storm? The split second of silence that comes with blinding lightning and the booming of thunder.

Do they think about all the things that might come with a rain storm? About a warm fire, safe from the outside with a blanket; a book or show to entertain and a warm drink.

My thoughts drift as I sit here, calm under the angry skies. My quarantine isn’t the same as yours, just as yours isn’t the same as mine. I can’t help but hope that as with how my perception of rain may influence your own, that we can learn from the experiences of isolation around the world. These moments foster my hope of a different world. As people, can we use this and learn to change the world?