Gaia's Tears

II

Raindrop Nirvana

“I’m at the bottom of the top of the bottom.”

It happens as I am out one morning for a jog through the park. It is raining intermittently upon leaving the house, but I am soon caught in a relative downpour. Truly a May shower if I've ever seen one: the air is no longer cool, even just past dawn with the sky a deep and greyish blue. Spring is ubiquitous in sight, sound, and smell. The freshly cut grass takes on the scent of freshly brewed tea leaves when moistened by the rainwater. The dull, accidental tranquility of the scene reminds me of Scotland, where the grass is bright green and the air is beyond humid and the land seems ancient and ethereal.

Two parks, containing two man-made lakes surround my suburban neighbourhood; during the mornings these are usually crawling with strangely overweight women walking strangely underfed dogs. But today this grey, somber atmosphere contains no such creatures, save myself. Here, I jog: toward a flock of Canadian geese bobbing serenely along the water; there, thousands of tiny ringlets of water droplets creating an infinitely complex and yet somehow organized pattern of randomness across the surface of the lake. I gasp for breath; the condition of my body is an absurdity. Now my pace slows and I find myself walking briskly along the asphalt path that has been carefully measured and paved out for my well-being. A robin scampers across this path, my path, some ten yards in front of me, twitching and poking with such natural fluidity. The calls of the birds, ducks, geese: these too share a bond with the raindrops in their unique organization.

Here, a bench, wooden and damp, nestled within a grove of willows at the end of the path. Carved upon it are numerous autographs from previous midnight intimacies-- "Garret & Stacey," "M.T. + A.L.," "BAER," etc, etc. Such a locale had provided adequate privacy from the basement windows of the lakeside showhomes that line the opposite bank. Here, gasping and pawing young boys and girls shared first kisses, or first make-outs, or even first joints on this hidden park bench, overlooking the stillness of a man-made lake. Here I rest, briefly, on this wet park bench on an early May morning.

And here is peace.

The roads and traffic and supermarkets and gas stations and construction sites and dilapidated homes take their place at my back, faded, artificial, unimportant. Two mallards notice my hurried breaths, my acrid sweat, my fast-beating heart, and swim out toward deeper, safer waters. A tangled call of a sparrow, behind me, to my right. In my reflective state I realize it is inharmonious and carries a different tone than the usual hum-drum of chirps: danger. For here I am a predator, and so shall I be marked; a warning cry to the neighbourhood; an alien on fertile soil; a hunter; imbalance. I do not deny that it is only natural for these smaller creatures to react as they do, but now I have realized two things: I am a virus and I cannot do anything to change that. Life feeds on life feeds on life feeds on life feeds on life, ad infinitum. The ducks fear me because I am vicious and I have killed before.

The rain continues to fall, however lightly. From the droplets upon the lake, I try to discern the pattern that I know is there, but my feeble brain cannot process such a task. To be one with the Earth is to be One and also to be Everything, and by definition: not human. To be human is to be lost, puzzled, cold, sad and lonely. And yet here, at this park bench, I feel I am none of these things. There can be peace here at this spot, if only for a short time. All the garbled, chaotic, apocalyptic greed and masterfully orchestrated anarchy of politicians, businessmen, lawyers, yuppies, militants, freedom fighters, jihadists are simply second tier. Like the city at my back, they have lost presence in my mind.

Here there is energy, boundless and beautiful. The mind is calmed and in turn the soul is cleansed. Without realizing I am a part of this ecosystem, I have participated in the enrichment of it. Here I gain energy and peace of mind, after which my energies are released back into the cycle. I could stay. It would be one step closer to joining with the Earth, and one step further away from my humanity. There is power here; the power to create and power to destroy, here in this dreary pond full of scum and birdshit.

A half-ton truck lumbers by burning diesel fuel, drowning out the birds, the sound of the rain. Suddenly I realize I'm getting wet and I quickly stand back up and pull the hood over my hair, so it doesn't get wet. Back to the asphalt path, the one that will lead me back into my plastic existence. I try jogging back home, and I feel I've made a little improvement since I began. I can maintain a little longer, I can push a little harder, and I can concentrate a little clearer, since my moment at the lake. I take my reflections and I do two things: first, I swallow them up into a part of my soul that needed brightening, like nourishment for a hungry part the soul. Second, I tromp back home, into my basement, sit down at my computer, its fan humming, screen blinding, processor compiling. I plug myself in and make a sad attempt to put what I have experienced into words.

I fail.