Good Medicine

I’m writing this from our back patio right now, while I’m considering going inside to get a sweater or a blanket. And it’s August. In Las Vegas. And it’s all because of the storm that blew in this weekend.

I first heard it during the night, when the rain on our patio roof woke me up. It was perfect – just loud enough to let me know it was there, but not so bad to keep me awake. I fell back to sleep, cozy in bed.

Today I woke to the smell of the rain and cooler morning temps, although the sky above our house was bright and sunny again. That’s how Vegas is – storms often pass through but only show themselves to sections of the city instead of the valley as a whole.

Today I was feeling a little down; my week had been stressful, and my husband was working on what is usually our day off together. So when I heard a few drops outside again I immediately turned off the TV (I was about to sink into an afternoon of mind-numbing Hallmark Channel movies), and went outside with George. The wind was picking up a little, and one whole section of the sky was dark grey while the other part was blue with white fluffy clouds. The few raindrops on the roof sounded like popcorn.

George jumped onto the back of the outdoor sofa where I sat, and I leaned my head against him. My heart wasn’t feeling great. Recent stress was causing the symptoms of my MVP (an annoying heart condition) to flare up a little, and my heart felt tight. In fact, it felt worse than normal. I sat and tried to make my stress go away by taking deep breaths like in meditation. Focus on the breath, ten counts in and twenty counts back out. It didn’t seem to loosen the anxiety in my chest but I did it a few more times anyway.

Then I realized I shouldn’t be sitting under the patio; I should be out in the rain – should get out in nature and let it fall down on me. So I walked around the yard a little bit, raised my face to the sky in time to get a raindrop right in my eye, and I wondered why raindrops aren’t dangerous, since they fall from so far. I liked feeling the rain touch me.

Soon the rain came down more quickly, the drops big and fat. I headed for the sofa again and pulled George onto my lap to get warm during the sudden chilly wind. He and I sat and watched the downpour – it was indeed a downpour – the type of rain that brings people to windows to look outside, the kind that sounded like tympani were being played on our patio roof.

After about ten minutes or so of watching the rain fall in a diagonal toward where we sat, it gradually calmed down again, and slowly the sounds of our neighborhood resumed. A few birds flew by, chirping. A car drove by on a nearby street, its tires sounding wet on the pavement. The rain had stopped everything, had forced all to stop, to sit and observe.

And I realized my heart wasn’t tight anymore. The rain had taken away the tension. See, now, why I love the rain?

Not-so-dirty Laundry

On Saturday it was gloomy outside, with an 80% chance of rain that teased us all day before finally donating a few drops after dark. I love overcast days, because they make it fun to hibernate inside with a hot drink, or they put me into Domestic Mode and I get in the mood to do housework or projects inside.

This Saturday I found myself doing laundry, and I have to admit that it is the one household chore that I don’t mind. I won’t say I like it – it seems crazy to ever say I like any type of cleaning – but I have to admit that the prospect of laundry does not fill me with dread like vacuuming, doing dishes, or cleaning toilets does.

I realized this when I turned on the dryer on Saturday, and the laundry room filled with the warm rattle of the dryer’s drum turning lazily over and over. That sound – the rhythmic hum – is actually comforting to me. It brought me back to weekends as a child, when Mom was in the other room doing laundry, and it meant that I was at home, safe. Laundry days meant we had free time, an afternoon, a whole block of time to while away however we wished.

On cold laundry days, Mom would take a load of hot towels or sheets straight from the dryer and plop them onto me, where I sat on the couch, so I could snuggle into them like a cocoon. She had a knack for turning everyday things into fun.

In the Spring and Summer, Mom hung the laundry outside on our clothesline that had a bird feeder hanging from one end. This was partly an economic choice, but more likely, she liked the way clothes smell after they’ve dried outside. You just can’t beat that smell – no dryer sheet or fabric softener can capture it, no matter how hard they try.

In Las Vegas we’re not allowed to put clotheslines in our backyards because the neighborhood associations prohibit it. But my laundry room tries to make up for it. I have a retractable clothesline so I can hang things across the room if I want, I painted the walls a bright sky-blue, and I hung Mom’s painting of picnic tables above the washer/dryer. And covering the main wall are framed photos of clotheslines…one of romantic Italian clotheslines from a trip with my husband, one of my Mom’s sheets blowing in the Spring breeze, one of my great-aunt’s frozen clothesline in the snow, and one of me hanging towels with my childhood pet cat at my feet. Doing the laundry brings me closer to all of them.

It smells like rain...

When I was a kid, my friend Hilary and I convinced her mother to let us go camping in the woods behind her house one night. By “camping” I mean sleeping in the woods in a sleeping bag on the ground. We must have been pretty young, because we only needed one sleeping bag, and we were not worried when it started to rain; we just propped an umbrella over our heads and went to sleep. After a few hours Hilary’s sister was sent out to find us and bring us back in the house. My memory of that night isn’t the uncomfortable ground or being brought home early; instead I remember the novelty of sleeping out in nature. The sound of the raindrops in the trees. The smell of the wet earth. The dark that encircled us warmly, protectively.

Rain has always been special to me, especially now because I live in the desert and always yearn for a good thunderstorm to give life to the dry city. But it was special to me even before I moved to Las Vegas.

Rainy days during my childhood meant it was time to snuggle inside and work on a sewing or drawing project at the kitchen table or help mom make a pie or batch of cookies. Or I would stand at the back screen door and watch it come down in a comforting stream until the spring on the hill behind our house overflowed and caused a temporary creek across our yard. Once the rain slowed, I put on my boots and grabbed my umbrella and floated boats in our driveway puddles.

In college, rainy days gave a welcome break to the daily monotonous grind of classes and homework. A day with an umbrella roof, spent ducking from one building to the next, forced students closer together and was therefore cozy and more fun.

I think George has “inherited” some of my rain-love. Even if it’s coming down hard, he will paw at the car window until I roll it down for him. Then he sticks his head out the window and shakes from head to toe every minute or so. The other drivers must think I’m nuts, but I just drive on, humming a tune to the beat of the wipers, with a wet dog hanging out the window.

Rain in Las Vegas is always welcome, but it’s different than Midwestern rain. The desert sky is so stark and huge, and often you can see that other areas of the valley are getting rain while the sun shines on your area. (Rain envy!) Usually the sky teases you with a few drops on your windshield, then nothing. When it does actually rain – real rain that forces you indoors – I always run outside under our patio and just listen, and watch, and inhale. Nothing is more soothing than the steady fall of rain. Musty. Cleansing. Romantic.

I’m writing this from Indiana, and tomorrow’s forecast is a 60% chance of rain. Heaven.