i am a desert baby.
i love the sun. i love the smell of melty asphalt that dips beneath your step. i like the iridescent mirages that dance on the highways. the smell of gasoline. the brown landscape. the big sky — painted with splashes of brilliant purples, oranges and reds as the sun sets. i love my mountains, although they’d later be dwarfed. i love rocky cross-country runs through thorny and spiky brush and cactus. a dull green. i love the smell of chlorine and sunblock. i love the welcome breeze, almost like a blow dryer, on a blazing day… cooling your sweaty skin for just a second.
i love hearing thunderstorms roll in… watching the gleaming lightening cut through the sky. flashes of neon green. i love playing, barefoot, in the warm rain. the cracked, dusty earth eagerly drinks up the infrequent raindrops. i love the smell just after the rain. i love the bursts of color that spring up across the desert–life breathed in to the landscape.
just as the earth transforms during a rainstorm so have my habitats. i clutched to the desert as long as i could. i’d soon be introduced to rain 9 months out of the year in brazil. this would also be my first exposure to true humidity… all laying a groundwork for washington dc. in dc i was surrounded by water. i crossed bridges daily. bridges that carried me over raging water, not dried up creeks. i lived along rivers and bays… swiftly i had become a water baby despite my resistance.
i thought i knew water. a different water saturates the northwest. it’s more of a dewy mist. a constant drizzle. a dense gray. for the past 48 hours an unrealistic water has poured down. we escaped to the south for a weekend, missing the winter’s first snow. our return trip yesterday morning would be constant rain from portland to seattle. a constant rain that has yet to stop. a soaking, soggy, slick rain. i have that feeling of being underwater and listening to words spoken above the water. everything is warbled and distant. there is no remedy. i am waterlogged.