A Promise of Rain
Mid-June 2007
--
The late morning rain is coming down in slow, heavy sheets, one wave after another, bringing life to the pasturelands of the high mountain plateau outside of Greer, Arizona. Undulating virgas, once dancing across the distant mountains, are now enveloping the truck and the small two-lane mountain road in a soft gray haze. I can barely see the road, yet I glide on it like a boat quietly catching a quick morning tide out to sea.
I've been the only person on this rain-slickened road for the last ninety miles. A battered cattle truck, my sole companion since Eager, disappeared from my rearview mirror and into the gray mist twenty miles back at the last junction. He honked his horn and I honked mine, and he was gone.
It's been raining like this since early morning - a cold, steady downpour without the promise of relief or a rainbow in sight. If this were the desert, it would've stopped hours ago and the ground would be dry. However, it's not the desert, it's the high mountains, and alpine forests and cold mountain streams surround me. That's why I'm here; taking the first week-long vacation I've had by myself in over thirty years and reveling in my third annual "Celebration of Life" Tour.
I don't have to be driving in the rain, but I am. I could be spending the day playing board games or cards in a nearby mountain lodge or fishing in a mountain stream with cold rain beating down on me. Or I could be enjoying a day of shared intimacy with a delightfully beautiful woman whom I met last evening at dinner. She's rediscovering herself after a recent mid-life divorce and invited me to a day of hedonistic carousel rides. I would love to be with her, but the emotional cost would be too high. She needs someone who will listen as she discusses the details of her marriage and how it went wrong, and I can't do that. I've already buried my dead.
Yet, I don't trust my loins, so I've been on the road since breakfast, heading to a small mountain town 200 miles west for a late lunch I don't need or want.
As I drive through the rain, I wish the seat next to me held a pretty woman with a good heart, but that won't happen until my heart is healed - and I'm not going to rush it. When I offer my heart, I will offer all of it, not just a portion of it. Love is far too important to be rushed.
In another hour, I'll reach my destination, a small roadside family-run diner known only to locals and former locals. Before I head in, I'll briefly hold my face to the heavens and smile as the rain pitter-patters against my glasses.
It's something I do whenever it rains. It's my way of giving thanks. Back home in the desert, rain is everything. It provides life, it offers hope and it brings promise for another day.
And on this morning, it helps me remember why I'm here.
---
--
The late morning rain is coming down in slow, heavy sheets, one wave after another, bringing life to the pasturelands of the high mountain plateau outside of Greer, Arizona. Undulating virgas, once dancing across the distant mountains, are now enveloping the truck and the small two-lane mountain road in a soft gray haze. I can barely see the road, yet I glide on it like a boat quietly catching a quick morning tide out to sea.
I've been the only person on this rain-slickened road for the last ninety miles. A battered cattle truck, my sole companion since Eager, disappeared from my rearview mirror and into the gray mist twenty miles back at the last junction. He honked his horn and I honked mine, and he was gone.
It's been raining like this since early morning - a cold, steady downpour without the promise of relief or a rainbow in sight. If this were the desert, it would've stopped hours ago and the ground would be dry. However, it's not the desert, it's the high mountains, and alpine forests and cold mountain streams surround me. That's why I'm here; taking the first week-long vacation I've had by myself in over thirty years and reveling in my third annual "Celebration of Life" Tour.
I don't have to be driving in the rain, but I am. I could be spending the day playing board games or cards in a nearby mountain lodge or fishing in a mountain stream with cold rain beating down on me. Or I could be enjoying a day of shared intimacy with a delightfully beautiful woman whom I met last evening at dinner. She's rediscovering herself after a recent mid-life divorce and invited me to a day of hedonistic carousel rides. I would love to be with her, but the emotional cost would be too high. She needs someone who will listen as she discusses the details of her marriage and how it went wrong, and I can't do that. I've already buried my dead.
Yet, I don't trust my loins, so I've been on the road since breakfast, heading to a small mountain town 200 miles west for a late lunch I don't need or want.
As I drive through the rain, I wish the seat next to me held a pretty woman with a good heart, but that won't happen until my heart is healed - and I'm not going to rush it. When I offer my heart, I will offer all of it, not just a portion of it. Love is far too important to be rushed.
In another hour, I'll reach my destination, a small roadside family-run diner known only to locals and former locals. Before I head in, I'll briefly hold my face to the heavens and smile as the rain pitter-patters against my glasses.
It's something I do whenever it rains. It's my way of giving thanks. Back home in the desert, rain is everything. It provides life, it offers hope and it brings promise for another day.
And on this morning, it helps me remember why I'm here.
---
posted by Mike Chandler | 12:23 AM
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