it is a rainy weekend. yesterday I drove into the District to drop a friend off at Union Station, and although I was right under the Washington Monument, the clouds hung so low I could not make out its sharp tip pointing into the sky. I drove through the city and along the National Mall as a steady, soft drizzle coated my car and bounced off the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool. as I passed by Honest Abe in his limestone temple, I was reminded just how far from home I really am. but still the rain fell, and as I drove over the Potomac River, I could have sworn it was the Willamette.
almost a year ago, as I was getting ready to move to Washington, D.C. and preparing myself to leave Portland, I wrote about the rain – about how it comforts me and energizes me with its ability to instigate growth and make room for new life. I wrote about how, years from now, I will look back on this time in my life as a period of “rain, falling down, cleansing me from who I thought I needed to be.” and honestly, even a year later, not much has changed. I am still fighting against expectations I have for myself. and I still love the rain.
this is what the rain does for me, as I try not be lonely so far from home: it comforts me and reminds me, for the hundredth time, that I am a lot more than I often allow myself to be. it reminds me that home is fluid and abstract and always more than four walls. the wetness drenches my windows, and as my wipers sweep over the windshield, they wash away any inclination I might have to be anything but myself. the clouds hang low, enveloping me like my favorite, tattered baby blanket – calming, but a bit sad.
this weekend, my car is my home, the downpour continues, and the sky stays gray...and I might be the only person happy for the rain.