When it rains, and rains, and rains and …

Now I’m a real nomad. It’s a new season. I’m in a new place. It’s been raining for the last five days and will continue to do so for the duration I’m camping along Coastal Oregon. 

This week’s deluge is unusual for September, local weather forecasters report. All part of the adventure and attitude adjustment us nomads make on a daily basis. And while I’d rather be gadding about, hiking and biking without wet shoes and layers of clothes, camping in the rain has its benefits. 

No. 1, since I upgraded my travel digs to a 2016 Pleasureway Ascent, I have heat, a toilet, kitchen, and cozy bed that I’m lounging in at this very moment. I have a TV, can you believe it? and occasional cell reception which allows me to movie-binge; I’m in the middle of Netflix’s “The Chosen” and almost done with the new season of “The Morning Show” on Apple TV. I have a ton of healthy food in my pantry and fridge, my beloved books, music, and art materials. Tucked away as efficiently as humanly possible in my 19’ x 6’ apartment-on-wheels, I have everything I need to enjoy a good life. 

In my waffle weave bathrobe and fuzzy Target socks, I look outside and watch the grasses and trees flourish, and listen to the pit-pit-pit-patter dancing atop my roof, and realize that Oregon’s rain invites me to breathe-in gratitude as I appreciate the rhythm of Nature. 

No. 2, a week-long rain forecast rain clears out a whole bunch of campers; what’s left is a campground sprinkled with camping devotees, quiet and respectful folk who love getting away from it all as much as I do. Rain campers tend to stick to ourselves, except when there’s a break in the rain, then we hop outside, wave hello as we walk the dog, take out the trash, fill up water jugs, exercise, and check-out each other’s rigs.

No. 3, rainy days give nomads a chance to catch up with the doldrums of life-on-the-road, like cleaning the rig, editing-out clothes and extraneous items you packed—just in case—but know you’re never going to use. Lighten the load. Fresh start.

No. 4, when you travel a lot, it’s good to factor-in unplanned “sick” days when you’re not sick.  Soup, tea, a manicure, write postcards, take a nap—restore. Rainy days are my sick days. Time to re-assess.  

I’ve discovered that I don’t like driving more than four hours a day. I also don’t like rushing to leave a site. I can, and have, but I like taking my time before moving on to my next destination. In Oregon, you can’t check into a campground until 4 p.m. and some places are more follow-the-rule than others about that. On the flipside, you also don’t have to check out until 1 p.m. Since I have no reason to rush, I usually take my time, write a little, clean up, review the map, make breakfast, and prepare a healthy dinner I can heat-up later. 

I’m working to reverse my lifelong, driven, deadline-oriented personality; trying to resurrect  that little kid who gets so absorbed into what she’s doing she doesn’t hear Mommy calling, “Janet, let’s go. It’s time to go!” for the fourth time. 

You know, I don’t remember Mom ever rushing me. There was no, hurry, hurry, we’re late, childhood stress.

It’s a strange, floating place to be in, this time of my life. Since high school, I’ve been doing, accomplishing, assisting, organizing, and polishing my life so it made sense. It was, in many ways, extraordinary and predictable.

And now it’s not. 

Now it’s wonder-filled. 

My “job” right now is to witness and experience. I don’t have a compelling “need” to report every detail, every encounter, although it’s my natural inclination as a former journalist to do so. 

These Oregon rainy days help me to realize how important it is for me not let the inclement weather—or anything else for that matter—ruin my day. 

Not the worrying phone call.

Not the muddy shoes tracked across my new rug. 

Not the occasional cruddy people. 

Not the big branch that hit the back of my rig in the middle of the night and possibly damaged my e-bike and/or solar panel. 

Rain washes it all away, clears the canvas, revealing patches of blank, negative space for me to ponder: Should I fill it in with aqua blue or leave well enough alone?

This afternoon, in the drizzle, in the sand-pelting wind, I decided to layer-up and hike across the sand dunes at Nehalem State Park in Manzanita, Oregon. The sand was wet and cold, beige and onyx, and my stride was slow as I climbed to the top of the dune. I almost couldn’t breathe. Not because it winded me, which it did, but because I realized, if I let the rain stop me, I would have missed the wild vista. As it was in the beginning. Just me, Isadora Duncan’s scarf dancing dunes, and the boisterous sea. You know those victory at sea paintings? Those stunning postcards of perfectly framed windswept beaches? It was like that, only a trillion times more magnificent. If I had the ability to fly, I would have done so, right there, like the seagulls, like the Canadian geese, like the shredded soaring cotton clouds. 

I don’t want to forget this. Or yesterday. Or what’s to come. Words are my painting, my song, reminding me, it really happened.

* * *

It can be scary. People can be so hurtful. But not you. Your goodness, your sincerity, brings joy and value to the world. 

My experience has been, both as a reader and writer, that when a person shares his or her truth, the rain disappears, and we become one. 

The ancient redwoods offer many life lessons. They know, for instance, that in order to weather the weather, they need to network with divergent species—hemlock trees, ferns, grasses, and huckleberry bushes. Superficially, literally, their interconnectedness is esthetically beautiful, but dig a few feet below the surface and their complex, interwoven circuitry is astounding. Such  could be said about human interactions.

Two years back when I was still teaching, I decided to take a chance and share my life observations via this blog. It’s been a healthy outlet for me, and I hope, adds value in some way to your life. Vulnerability is good. Our cracks make us strong. 

“Pay attention, be astonished, and tell about it,” poet Mary Oliver wrote.

Not all the time, I’d add, but when your heart breaks open with ripe nectarine shards.

My two cents: put pen to paper, compose a song, paint a picture, take a photograph, and document what it’s like to be you in this world full of beauty and challenges, in this clumsy, wonderous Fall rainstorm of life that may or may not have a silver lining.