Time to do my nature writing assignment again.
I just spent the last few minutes rummaging through my mobile storage unit, a.k.a. my truck, looking for this journal. With some frustration. With some resistance to the current state of my life. At least I found it in the cab and didn’t have the leave this truck oasis currently under attack by water hurtling down from the sky.
It is really interesting how a view of the world is tinted so dramatically by the lenses one wears. I currently don the ‘this is not what my life should look like’ lens and everything is a hassle and an inconvenience. Yet I recall loving the rain, sitting the in the meditation hall at Green Gulch Farm, allowing the sound to massage my aching knees. It felt like love. Now, I spurn ‘love’ and want it to go away.
Could be worse. I am reminded of a jalopy I drove in high school: a Pontiac J-2000 SE with a hatchback my Dad bought used for $2000. I learned a lot from that car. Rusts runs rampant here on the island. The internal mechanism allowing the driver’s side window to roll up and down corroded. So began a game whereby I would remove the side panel, lift the windowpane up to its highest position and replace the panel. It would slowly make its descent due to the vibrational energy of the car and gravity.
Now, those who have grown up with little money and a desire to transport one’s self other than with one’s feet or public transit are familiar with the love and care necessary to keep a car performing, albeit at the minimum level. You have to pay attention, watch the gauges, listen. You know how to fix a flat, where to buy retread tires, how to start the car with a wrench and how to put out a carburetor fire. You know to turn on the heater when the engine starts overheating and how to add fluid when all the warnings and manuals say ‘DO NOT OPEN THE RADIATOR CAP WHEN ENGINE IS HOT’. That message is just for novices. You just need a towel and some patience. (Do not attempt to do this at home, please) So, I played the window game. It wasn’t such a big deal unless it rained. I began to hate the rain with a passion.
Comparatively, it’s not that bad in this moment. My truck is reliable and at the least the cab doesn’t leak (though the camper shell does a bit). I am dry although the cold is starting to creep in.
Back to the reason I am here. Nature writing. Which assumes one is in nature. Not sure if cowering in my truck counts. Somewhere in this truck is a pair of rain pants. I know where my umbrella, rain parka and floral garden boots are. All are in the back. Along with my gloves. Might be tricky to write out there and I’m definitely not setting my bum on the sand today!!
I’ve been questioning my decision to return home. What exactly am I doing here? It was more clear what I was doing out on the West Coast. My Mom is happy to have me here and hopes I stay – maybe I will, who knows? I am happy to have the opportunity to be helpful and provide some support as she still puts the pieces of her life back together after Hurricane Ike. But is there a life for me here?
I see the high rise in the distance. I hear the pitter pat of the rain as it lessens its assault. A car drives through the parking lot and makes its way as close to the beach as it can. I hope it doesn’t get stuck.
Here comes more rain. An increasing crescendo. I find myself listening as I do at the symphony – trying to pick out the different parts of the orchestra as the rain plays different parts of my truck.
The little red car turns around and leaves. No one got out.
It’s hard to distinguish the Gulf from the off-white sky. A low, grayish stripe peeks out above and between the artificial dunes. Flashes of bright white can be seen as the waves curl and break.
A gull and friend fly toward me as a flock of their kin cruises the shoreline. I can make out part of the fence with the red ‘Do Not Enter’ signs I sat by last week and think ‘That’s where I should be!’ I hate it when I 'should' myself. ‘I shouldn’t hate either’ I think as I do it again.
A dark blue Chevy pulls up to my left. I wonder if they’ll get out.
I remember senior night at Astroworld in Houston when it started to rain. We loved it, staying to ride Texas Cyclone again and again, experiencing the added exhilaration of rain pelting us in the face. It was awesome! ‘One more time! One more time!’ we’d chant as we returned to the start. Have I become too old and too comfortable to play in the rain?
I hear a metronome as the rain attempts to keep the pitter-patter in time and is doing a lousy job of it because it keeps speeding up and slowing down. I can’t decipher which part of the truck is providing that backbeat.
The frequency of sound increases and I lost all motivation for venturing forth. Instead, I study the patterns being made on my windows. I am reminded of wine tasting – swirling the chardonnay in the glass, analyzing the ‘legs’, the vertical patterns made as the wine descends to the bottom of the glass once the centripetal force decreases to zero newtons.
There’s surface tension as the water forms irregular mounds. When the sum of forces no longer equals zero, the water makes its way to the bottom of the window reminiscent of a shooting star, recruiting friends on the way.
I am also reminded of the video game I played as a child – one I loved more than Asteroids or Ms. Pacman – Centipede. I am moved to want to ‘shoot’ these drops before they make it to the ‘ground’. I gaze at the window and experience an old familiar feeling as I think ‘But there are too many – how can I shoot them all?’
The windshield makes a completely different pattern than the window. Due to the slope of the glass and its curvature, the drops of water immediately meld into one another becoming one slow-dripping cascade. A kind of water feature. Relaxing to watch. It looks a bit like dimples – ‘ooh, like cellulite ‘ I think in disgust, definitely not something even on my radar when dropping quarters into video games at the local arcade.
So far, no one has emerged from the Chevy with the tinted windows. I wonder if there are kids in there making out. My mind is all over the place today.
A black bird appears before me, perching on a fencepost. I must sadly admit that my birding skills are horrid and I can’t even say with confidence that this is a crow. Could it be a European starling? A friend joins him or her before they both fly off to my left, joining a group of them pecking on the ground. They pick up pieces of Styrofoam and other trash and I want to scream out ‘No, yucky, spit it out!’ like I would to my one year old nephew Jacob when he picks up pieces of grass or dead bugs from the ground.
The birds are gone now, but there’s still a two-liter bottle on its side with a blue label. The liquid is brown with hints of orange. Maybe next week, I will return with trash bags and clean up this place.
On my dashboard I spy a pile of sand and a thin, white shell. I picked it up last week, meaning to give it to my new friend, Dave, but I keep forgetting. It’s sitting next to a package of dried, pitted California dates, ‘local’ food picked when I was a California local. It’s my favorite kind of shell. I am drawn to the delicate ones, the fragile ones – a reminder of the transiency of life. I look up from my journal at the shell again. I smile and with a surge of adrenaline, put down my pen – quick, before I change my mind…
I leap out of the truck – no garden boots, no jacket, no hat – wearing blue jeans, Dansko clogs and a fleece shirt and I ran. I run over and on top of forbs, grasses and a toothbrush, squishing sand and splashing through puddles to the dunes. I stop, laughing and take off again for the water. I arrive at the edge and notice more patterns of rain in the sandy pools. I hear and see the waves, and wave myself. I spin around, arms extended and laugh out loud. And then I turn and book it back to the truck, rain pelting me in the face.
I rush back into the cab, slam the door, huffing and puffing, looking like the proverbial wet rat.
I am still alive!!! My nose runs, a trickle of water creeps down my neck and my jeans stick to the front of my legs. My hair is plastered to my head and my laugh is more genuine than it has been in days. Another kiss and a shout out to the creator for reminding who I am.
