Last week, I went for a walk around Meeker Park. Underneath my feet, the ground was crunchy and everything looked bedraggled, tired, as if it had given up in this summer of not enough rain and too hot temperatures.
The next morning, I awoke to cloudy skies, and, as I sat down for my breakfast, I noticed clouds moving in from the east, swiftly erasing the hillside across the way and moving up the valley, so I soon lost the Twin Sisters Peaks. All around me, the tall pines were enshrouded in gray mist. Fog is such a rarity here that I wanted to walk outside, see what everything looked like, felt like in this new landscape, without sun, everything partially obscured. Quiet, moist, even the birds seemed hushed, as if in awe of this day.
All day it rained on and off, a slow, soft rain that seemed like a blessing, like grace itself descending from the sky. But that night, laying in bed, I could hear the faucets turn on, and the rain became harder. All I could think about was the gratitude of the trees—the aspens and pines that I have been trying to water all summer long with rain from the rain barrel, and feeling I was barely making a dent. Now I could imagine the rain soaking down to their roots and then being pulled upward to feed those branches where weeks ago the pine needles started turning reddish brown and the aspen leaves had started to crinkle up.
All summer I’ve been prepared for fires, had mentally made a list of what I needed to do if I had to flee my cabin. But I wasn’t prepared for rain, so had to think about what I was supposed to do. Was there some danger I needed to prepare myself for? Would the creeks flood? Was the house in any danger?
Everything was fine, better than fine. Although I couldn’t see Mount Meeker, swaddled in clouds, undoubtedly there was new snow. The next day was cloudy, the clouds still low, with a slight drizzle. I wanted more, wanted days of rain to pelt the earth, but I knew I had to feel gratitude for what I had.