Day 9: One of those days ...

Soundtrack:
"I smell blood and there's no blood around,
Blanked out eyes and the blanked out sound,
See them coming back, motionless, in an airport lounge,
Let the sunshine in,
Let the sunshine in,
The sunshine in."
- Mike Doughty

"I went underneath the water and I bit my little boy in his hand, just to hold him, and by the time I came up back, he was gone," said Philberto Roches, "I turned around and tried to find him and never did."

At this moment, it rains. It doesn't pour, it doesn't sprinkle, it just rains. A steady stream of drumming keeps tempo in some kind of percussive symphony. It seems like a long, soft drum solo waiting for the refrain to begin. Each surface makes for a different tone as raindrops hit the concrete, the asphalt, the plastic, and the steel. Even the grass adds a soft, subtle note. There are pockets of silence where trees stand to intercept what falls from the heavens. It's a pretty, immersing wall of noise that masques all other sounds around it. Downbeats in the rain reveal a cacophony of motors, planes, and car horns. It is during these breaks I realize how deafening a little rain can be and appreciate the soothing pitter-patter. It's hypnotic and it feels so pure. And the smell; you know the smell. The world feels clean again, if just for those few minutes.

A long time ago, I read an article on Buddhist monks and how they use a simple strategy to better see the world around them. They will take a final glance at their surroundings, close their eyes tightly, and reopen them after a few seconds. Give it a shot. You'll see that it truly does give you "new eyes" and you'll have fresh insights about what happens around you and clues as to why. The rain is like that, but on a bigger scale.

The fortunate thing about the rain in Idaho is that it knows when to stop. Many would disagree with me, but that's probably because they've never been in a flood. It gives you a different appreciation for the rain and a more intimate relationship with Mother Nature. Of course, I speak mostly for those who have been engulfed and seen their homes and loved ones ripped away from them, like the man quoted above.

I was in a small tropical storm once, though. It was in Puerto Aventuras and I was about fifteen. Even when the water can't touch you, it's an incredibly suffocating feeling. You're trapped. In many ways, you can't do anything but watch rivers build up around you. It was an amazing sense of helplessness because, as hard as the rain fell, the wind was twice as fierce. The roads are submerged or blocked by uprooted trees. The emergency sandbags wash away and become hazards in their own right. Not even locals know to do anything more than watch and pray. It fell then like it falls now, but it forgot to stop. Eventually the clouds parted and I walked down a pathway, water up to my knees, and the naiveté of a young traveler. I could not fathom the magnitude. I could not fathom the potential for destruction and devastation. I could only splash around and think, "Wow, that was cool."

Obviously, all ended well and I can gladly say no one was hurt that I know of. But, thousands of people around the world perish each year from flood-related catastrophe or disease. In the Western Hemisphere in just the past few weeks alone, flooding has taken its toll on parts of Mexico, Belize, and the U.S., among others. It's a boon in Idaho that I can just sit and enjoy this symphony. That's the experience most of us have with the rain - it's at times peaceful, at times inconvenient. But rarely is it devastating. For now, I'm going to enjoy this encore performance, because it is worth appreciating. And, when it's over, I know I won't have to feel the fingers of a loved one slip away. For now, I love the rain and the tune it plays on the instruments around me.

Homework: Tell Congress: Keep Food Affordable for Poor People. It's easy, just sign an electronic petition.