I love the rain.
The way the clouds and fog soften the sky like a slowly rolling ocean. I like to think it’s the world’s way of encouraging us to slow down. Mother Nature’s weighted blanket.
Some of my favorite memories are associated with rain. On our first hike in California, Jordan proposed in a wet foggy redwood grove. Years later we got married at the same state park. The hail and clouds magically parted before I walked down the aisle to the Beatles, “Here Comes the Sun”. And it certainly was no coincidence that our honeymoon in Scotland and England landed in the middle of the U.K’s rainy season.
A grey backdrop carries a romance that a blue-bird sky can’t quite match up to.
California is known for being in a chronic drought but all bets are off in the winter. In fact, it only took a week into the New Year for the post-holiday glow to fade to darkness.
From Christmas to mid-January, we received a whopping year’s worth of rain. The over-saturation created an obstacle course of our roads. Mail and trash services temporarily shut down. Lakes at the base of the mountain overflowed, exiling us on an island. If it wasn’t for flooding trapping us in our secluded neighborhood, then it was the unpredictable landslides or fallen trees that did. Sometimes the combination of all three.
In the midst of everything, a 10-day power outage landed me on an emotional rollercoaster— not even I could romanticize the excess of rain.
We’re no strangers to outages. Tucked deep in the woods, neighbors joke that a slight breeze will cause the wifi signal to flicker. Most of our home-owning neighbors invest in two things: a chainsaw and a generator. Being the stubborn renters we are, Jordan and I have neither. Twenty-four to forty-eight hours without power is a walk in the park for us seasoned campers. We wear the badge of honor proudly with how often we’ve had to do it over the years. It was only a matter of time before our naivety caught up to us.
Similar to camping, we passed the time with Scrabble, boxed Mac & Cheese and headlamp-assisted reading. It was fun and carefree for the first few days.
One of the most terrifying nights of my life came on the third day of the storm. I awoke to angry howling winds that not even my rock of a husband could sleep through. I almost texted my family on the East Coast panicked “I love you’s” at 2am in the morning when I heard what sounded like a car crash outside my window. At one point I thought our cabin was going to blow away like a scene from the Wizard of Oz. It wasn’t the first time I traded in rest for “what-ifs?” and worst-case scenarios.
I found my car buried underneath redwood branches and a tangle of power lines the next morning. My sense of freedom whisked away, I realized we would be trapped longer than anticipated. (The poor Subaru spent a month in the autoshop getting a $7k makeover. Thank god for car insurance.)
Days without power turned into a week; a week turned into a week and a half. The restoration notifications would give us a semblance of hope only to be crushed when they were pushed back out further. We were rationing snacks and batteries and splitting up a pre-downloaded podcast into parts so we could savor the little entertainment we had left. Scarcity mindset permeated all our decisions.
All the processed foods had me fantasizing about broccoli and salads as if they were a basket of French fries. Being stripped of so many basic comforts also took a mental toll. Jordan had to pull me out of a dark place after sitting in my feelings for so long. My morale and patience were as low as my dwindling phone battery.
Without a space heater and dehumidifier, the damp air hung over the cabin keeping the thermostat at a cool 50 degrees. When it wasn’t raining, there were parts of the day that were actually warmer outside than in. Foggy windows skewed the little sunlight from peaking inside so lanterns were kept on and candles were burning around the clock. Five-six candles were lit at a time giving off the illusion of heat.
Being cold and wet is one thing, but not being able to dry off and get warm wears down the spirit. Any attempts of wiping down the dogs after a rainy walk was futile. Every towel was sopping wet. They would instinctively jump on the bed and couch leaving no escape from the dampness. The neglected dirty laundry hamper was as scary as the work I had piling up in my inbox.
Leaving the house was reminiscent of the beginning of the pandemic —even a trip to the grocery store was a triumph.
Similarly, first responders advised locals to limit outings for essential trips only. Jordan kept a pulse on reopened roads and pockets of clear weather like a flight captain. One landslide or fell tree is all it takes to block our route home.
The library was my refuge. Until then, I’d never seen it so crowded. Strangely enough, the uncharacteristic chatter echoing inside was incredibly comforting after going so long without stimulation. I craved noise: Netflix, music, and being amongst people. Anything that could momentarily pull me out of my own head.
Locals huddled over outlets and made phone calls with FEMA and insurance agents. I caught up on overflowing work emails and updated loved ones at the last open table. It wasn’t long before the seats around me filled with strangers doing what I imagine was the same thing. Seat-mates and fellow librarians would share war stories and commiserate with one another. An unusual place I sought comfort was at the restroom hand dryer. I imagined it as a tiny fireplace. Under the round metal opening, I lingered longer than usual letting the hot air disperse around my rain jacket and still-wet hair. I also left three books richer on that visit. My electronic devices and spirit were recharging simultaneously all thanks to a little plastic library card.
On the 10th day, the sun shone through. A convoy of Blue Pacific Gas & Electric trucks arrived in the neighborhood marking the end of what I call “the dark era.” I thanked the crew profusely before they left, resisting the urge to cheer them on as they pulled out of our driveway. PG&E are like the underrated I.T team at every company, everywhere. People come to them with an issue predisposed to a bad mood. No one notices their job well done when everything’s running smoothly. I.T and PG&E workers deserve more fanfare. Not having the internet or power for an extended period really makes you appreciate the times when things are properly functioning.
The calm clear skies that followed offered a reset to the cruddy start to the year. A collective sigh could be heard all throughout the Santa Cruz mountains. I won’t be so quick to write them off anymore.
After we returned to a sense of normalcy, my mom texted, “I think it’s time you move.” I still don’t have a response to rebuttal with. Depending on Jordan’s post-grad job offers, we may be relocating this year. The thought alone has riddled me with anticipatory grief. Tight knots in my body are as present as the trauma I now carry from experiencing multiple natural disasters in my backyard. In the seven years residing in the woods, I’ve lived through the gamut: multiple landslides, flooding, frozen pipes, outages during 100+ degree heat waves, and wildfires. Some would consider just one of those a deal-breaker. The thing is, my relationship with living out amongst it is a tumultuous love affair. And like every love-story, you can only understand what it’s like if you’re one of the parties involved. The winter storms snuffed out the flame briefly but to my relief, it’s back and shining rebelliously.
As soon as the power kicked on, I booked a trip to quell my cabin fever. Next month, I’ll be exploring a new city that my heart’s been pulling towards for years: lush and moody-skied Seattle.
Despite everything, I still love the rain.
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