Pluviophile

It’s storming as I write this.

The windows of my wood-paneled study are sprayed with trickling droplets, giving the room the cozy illusion of early winter haze. The water continuously drips from my roof in full, unsatisfied icicles. The distant trees and houses are grayed out beyond the sheets of falling water, separating me from every elsewhere.

(Elsewhere—now, there’s an idea.)

I am alone in this house of rain. Well, alone with the cats.

If you talk to me long enough I’ll eventually tell you rain is my favorite thing on the planet. Sure, there are lots of other things I enjoy too, like coffee, sleep, pretty girls, good music, smooth whiskey; but there’s just something about the falling of drops of water that speaks to me on the deepest level of my being.

Not the sink faucet, or even an awe-inspiring waterfall—none of that business. What I mean is the hose sprinkler in the yard, or the spray from a shower head. Anything, I reckon, that could form a rainbow. Drops falling. Millions of drops of water, all falling at once. I can’t tell you what that is or where it comes from, all I know is it’s a feeling I’ve never been able to accurately describe.

I used to say I would never write about rain. To me it’s the equivalent of trying to write about loss itself, whether it’s through love or death, that hollow emptiness that feels like it could never be filled with anything substantial enough to make a difference. To write about rain would ultimately lead me down a path of disappointment and heartache, because I wouldn’t be able to do it justice. It’s too much. I would fail.

But today I feel a little braver.

The feeling rain gives me is sweet like newfound love, but it’s also a deep yearning, like long lust. Sure, I can sit and watch a crackling fire with the best of them, but I don’t know too many people who would sit and watch the rain like I do. It could never rain for long enough, if you ask me.

When I was a kid that wasn’t the case. I used to have the most wretched fear of storms. I’d hear thunder and see those black clouds forming in the distance, and I’d be sick to my stomach for hours. Couldn’t tell you why. It’s not like I’d ever gone through a bad storm in my whole life, even with growing up on the Gulf Coast, a notable ditch in Hurricane Alley. The closest I’d come to experiencing destructive weather was watching big blockbuster movies like Twister.

The storms we experienced when I was young were so unimpressive my mom used to calm me down by telling me tales of storms past, which usually consisted of about two-and-a-half acres of pine trees twisted up like fifty giant Twizzlers, and Hurricane Frederick relocating her back porch to the front yard.

Nope, I’m completely storm-trauma free, but I was still scared silly at the thought of a bad one. But then, just like that, I wasn’t afraid anymore. Out of nowhere. Instead of turning my stomach to knots, my heart would swell and I’d feel deep in my gut that particular longing that came with the surging of winds and sharp cracks of thunder.

I’d found a muse.

Something in me changed, and I grew up, or I grew up and something changed. Either way, I’m glad it happened. Because I’ve managed to find peace amidst chaos and at the same time learn a valuable lesson: storms can be beautiful if you let them be.

I have the distinct pleasure of living in the rainiest city in the country, but that really only applies to the amount of rainfall per year, not the consistency of precipitation—that award goes to Seattle. But either way you want to look at it, I could always stand to see a little more rainfall.

More rain means more growth, more lush vegetation and ripe fruit. More puddles to splash in. More cups of coffee, more stories read or written by the window. Even those big, scary storms that make you feel like you won’t make it out on the other side. Even those, because even the bad ones are okay in the end. They pass just like all the others. I promise.

Oh, love, don’t ever forget that all storms pass. Your trees might be twisted. Your back porch might be in the front yard. But the storm is over now, and the birds are beginning to sing again. The air is still humid, but the sun is back out, and you’re going to be just fine.

We both will be just fine.

Best,

CBM

Trust

Trust is hard. Very hard.

Just like everything else in this world, it takes so much longer to build it than to demolish it. Destruction is quick and easy, but it doesn’t happen simply or quietly. Once complete, all the rubble has to be picked through and collected before the new foundation can be laid for any future structure.

Take an injured animal, for example. It might be skittish and cower away, or it might be hostile and snap if you get too close. It’s not because it’s standoffish or mean—it’s because it’s been hurt. Maybe hurt really bad. Hurt by something else entirely that has nothing to do with you.

So if you care about the animal and want to help, what do you do? Well, it takes a lot of time and effort. It has to be rehabilitated and loved, and it must learn to love in return. You have to sit with it for hours on end until it gets used to you. You bring it food and other treats to show it that you care. You re-culture it and socialize it to the point it begins to trust again on a grand scale, by showing it you aren’t going to hurt it in the same way it’s been hurt before.

Too many of us walk through life as demolition scenes. We are injured animals, hiding, snarling, doing our best to protect ourselves from any and all future injury. It’s reactionary. It’s survival. It’s safe, but it can also be extremely isolating and lonely.

Personally, trust has gotten me in a lot of trouble over the years. So has not trusting. Somehow, despite being opposites, both have led to proportionately equal amounts of heartache and emotional damage. I tend to overthink and project my fears onto other people, and before I know it I’m randomly convinced someone I know is lying to me.

I know I’m not the only one with this story. There’s a good chance either you identify with it yourself, or someone very close to you does—maybe even your significant other.

Not everyone has trust issues, of course, and in my experience those who don’t usually have a hard time understanding them. It’s almost like trust issues have developed a similar stigma in our society as mental health issues.

If you don’t have them you won’t understand, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be understanding.

There have been times when I’ve tried to express how difficult it is for me to trust within relationships that I’ve been been met with a cold lack of reassurance, as if having trust issues from a past girlfriend is like catching something venereal—as if getting too close will infect her or change her life in some incomprehensible way.

Maybe trust issues are, in and of themselves, a form of mental illness—or more likely, a result of one such as deep-seated anxiety. But believe me, it can be understood and handled appropriately. It’s very much possible to work together and come to a place of mutual understanding and general happiness.

If you want to help someone in your life with trust issues, be patient; attempts to listen and understand will mean more than you could ever fathom. Don’t get angry; getting angry will only increase the level of alarm and distrust. Remember it’s nothing personal; they know better than you do that it isn’t your fault, so there’s no need to make them feel worse about it than they already do. Communication is everything; if you can openly express your thoughts and feelings to them, they’ll feel that much more comfortable sharing their experience with you. Don't give them space unless they ask for it; distance makes the heart grow anxious, and if you’re just going around giving space all willy-nilly like it’s no big deal it’s going to come off the wrong way.

Trust is hard. Don’t get me wrong, ultimately it’s up to the person with the issues to work through those harder memories. They must learn to not let the past define who they are and who they become—at the end of the day that’s the only possible cure. But until then remember that every bridge has two sides, and its entire purpose relies on the strength of its core where those two sides meet in the middle.

So go ahead, meet them halfway. Have breakfast together, or see a movie, or play chess or something. Build that bridge, whatever it takes.

Best,

CBM