Loving the Storm

Today is another rainy day in Ba Ria. I love the rain. Beyond the fact that rain is a rare occurrence in the desert I call home, there is something wonderfully cleansing about it.

I think of the downpour as a sign of hope. It seems so easy to fall into the routine of life, accepting things as they are and trudging on to see another day. Imprisoned by complacency, there seems to be little motivation to elevate life from mediocrity. Simply, it is easier to stick with the status quo than to go through the pains of transition or the trying process of correction.

The residents here, including me, live with the smog, the heavy air and the muddled roadways. After a while, it starts to weigh down on the spirit. The overcast, I start to realize is man-made smoke. Jogging in the morning becomes more of a task to breathe as all of the dust is whisked into the air by construction projects. As I ride my bike from one place to the next, I dodge puddles of discarded liquids and piles of trash. Most days I accept that there is little that can be changed and perhaps this is the best it can get under the circumstances, “This is the way it is here in Ba Ria, and probably even most of Vietnam”.

It all changes after the rain. Following a good rain storm, the skies are brighter, the air is cleaner and the streets shine with the absence of litter. Even through the storm, there is always the reassurance that the storm will pass and there will be something brighter and better on the other side. Though, it is difficult to imagine such limpidness until it is forced upon you and you are drenched by its resolve.

Perhaps storms in life cannot be solely self-inflicted but rather brought on by an accumulation of circumstances; external as well as internal collisions that can boom with frightening light or just tingle in the breeze.

Being sporadically homesick over the last month, I occasionally see this year abroad as an everlasting storm. A year away can still seem like an eternity. I fear being forgotten. I worry about being replaced. I dread the thought of losing love. At times, I find myself holding my breath till the storm passes; till the thunder is silenced, the winds have stopped banging and the torrential downpour slows. In such a powerful tempest it is hard to envision the clarity that might follow.

I am slowly realizing (and hopefully implementing) a different perspective. Whatever the situation, it seems like it would be a shame if the storm itself wasn’t enjoyed.

I am starting to appreciate the rain, even more than before. When it rains, it is magical. The bustling streets are cleared out minus the intermittent commuters rushing home to find shelter. The sound of water clicks and clanks on every surface, drown out the honks and revs from the street down below. Even the deafening silence that pervades at night is cured by the gentle hum and light song of the drizzle outside. I love the rain.

Loving the storm has proven to be more difficult. It involves trusting that everyone who truly loves me will still be there when the clouds part. It requires the strength to stand strong when some trusted loved ones walk away. Over the last 3 weeks I have laid the foundation to start at least admiring the storm: long bike rides to other towns, 5 hours of yoga, weekend trips to breathtaking destinations and even inviting acquaintances to lunch and coffee.

What I miss during this particular storm is the warming light of a great conversation. It gets lonely when there is no connection that goes beyond just the shallow, “how are you?”, “how was your day?” or “will you be my friend so I can practice English?” There is nothing like the rays of light that shine on me when I feel like I understand someone and he/she understands me. Distant are the days when my intellectual pursuits or internal contemplations were something of interest and a spark for conversation, rather than something that renders my audience silent or confused.

Loving parts of the storm is easy. Loving the whole storm is hard to manage alone.