Finally a cool day in Carolina. There was a gorgeous storm this morning, complete with buckets upon buckets of rain. It reminded me of the time I got caught in a colossal rainstorm in New York. I was on the way home from a reading (someone else’s) and found myself walking down Houston alone and in the dark. While walking around NYC in the dark is not uncommon, being alone on Houston is.
It was a night in early spring and I was wearing clompy shoes and jeans with a long-sleeved short and a lightweight jacket. At first I tried to duck under a few awnings along the way trying to stay dry, but it was futile. So I gave in and walked down the center of the sidewalk letting the rain soak me to the bone, turning my clothes into sponges that made each step slightly heavier than the last.
In between tympani-like crashes of thunder, lightning made downtown visible for a heartbeat, like a photographer’s flash in the night. I outstretched my arms to either side and started spinning with my face upturned to the sky, letting the raindrops hit me squarely on the face, washing away all my fears and transgressions.
Teardrops mixed with the rain in a moment of pure joy and freedom on those blocks of Houston, blocks that are etched in my memory and are revived each time it rains a good hard rain. As I reached my block, the cover of the village trees acted as partial cover even though the rain continued at full force.
I reached my building and fumbled for my keys, stalling for a few minutes alone in New York City, not wanting to go inside for fear the fluourescent lights in the lobby might erase all the beauty I had just witnessed in a few tiny quiet moments on a seemingly ordinary night.
The five flights up to my apartment were left in one long stream of rain dripping from my clothes, and a small puddle remained at my front door where I stood opening the numerous locks that were barriers to what is often deemed a cruel city. Within minutes my sopping clothes were laid across the shower rod and I was wrapped in a dry fluffy towel, holding onto the last few joyous moments of the night as I squeezed the excess from my hair into the bathroom sink.
Often when I speak of my months in New York, I speak of how much I loathe the place. Forgetting about that night and the day I played softball in Central Park or the walks along the river or my local Korean grocer who was so kind or the nights of laughter with dear friends. This morning, as I was waking up listening to the rain, I thought of all of this and how often the bad surfaces first to me instead of the good.
As I get ready for another move, a temporary one, where I’m not really sure I will land afterwards, this morning’s remembrance stood as a welcome reminder. To not get stuck in the negativity of the past because undoubtedly, there is beauty that has been misplaced.
Lately I have been taken into confidence by several individuals regarding doubts about their chosen paths, both in life and career. I am honored and humbled by the fact that they have come to me for advice, especially when I certainly don’t have any clear answers for myself. And I keep finding myself repeating the same things over and over again, ‘take a deep breath, listen to yourself, hold on to your strength.’ Although I wonder if it means I’ve read too many new age texts, I know it’s true.
So as I work on various art projects, I hope that I can keep memories such as that night on Houston close to the forefront. Because all too often, it gets left behind in clouds of doubt and needless worries. I need to remember what happens when you take a moment to revel in the present instead of worrying about what lies before or behind.
(Rain photos by Katherine Bourke, from a rainy day on the London Eye. It was rainy, but boy was it beautiful. I love the way the raindrops look on the little bubble you’re stuck in.)