Discovering Metaphors in Rain
As I reflected on the “Rain” chapter in my book, Creeksong: One Woman Sings the Climate Blues, while Chris was preparing his blog post about how he designed and implemented the chapter’s soundscape, I immersed myself again in the flood of emotions that surged within me during the writing process. I returned to that terrifying time in my young life. Metaphorically, I let the river wash over me.
It struck me as intriguing that my chapter begins with a poignant quotation from my father, a man deeply rooted in his childhood on a Saskatchewan farm.
Whenever I’d exclaim, “Daddy, it’s bucketing out there! It’s raining cats and dogs,” he’d respond in his characteristic manner: “Well, at least we don’t have to shovel it, Wadi.”
Daddy’s stoic outlook on rain (from the sanctuary of his dry car) revealed volumes about his attitude toward life’s challenges. (Daddy was a commercial traveller who loved his car.)
As I revisited this particular Creeksong chapter, I could not help but view it through the innocent eyes of my six-year-old self. The torrential rainstorms that swept through Vancouver in November 1949 served as the backdrop against which many facets of my personality began to take shape–some functional, others decidedly dysfunctional. During the 60 days of rain that followed our arrival in Vancouver, my father and I endeavored to ease my mother’s difficult transition from the familiar comforts of her extended Ontario family to the unfamiliar terrain of the West Coast. The situation was urgent. She was falling apart and we didn’t know what to do. Daddy had to leave on a three-month business trip soon.
We failed. The rain succeeded in taking her down.
“Daddy, why does it rain so much in Vancouver?” I asked one day as raindrops pelted against the car window. We’re on our way back form the supermarket.
“It’s just the way things are here, Wadi. Rain’s a part of life in Vancouver.”
“But why doesn’t it stop? It feels like it’s been raining forever.”
“It’ll stop when it’s ready to stop. Until then, Wadi, we’ll have to make the best of it.” He smiled and reached over to tousle my hair.
This sort of parental behavior failed to settle me down. Completely failed. I wanted more. More reassurance. I was six and three-quarters years old and a primal fear gripped me. I could not understand how and my world that was slipping out of control. And it was clear to me that the adults in my life (these two who said they were my parents) had no idea what to do.
Keywords: Rain, Metaphors, Fear, Resilience, Reflection
From Comfort to Chaos
Initially, the sight of the Capilano River filled me with excitement and pride as we crossed the Lions Gate Bridge at the end of our arduous journey across North America. My heart jumped in my chest. I had a new friend. My own friend. I felt like I had my own river, a symbol of security and stability. It felt like a friend I could confide in. However, that sense was fleeting, shattered by the sudden realization that danger lurked beneath its surface. The river, initially a source of comfort, became a symbol of uncertainty and fear as tragedy struck with devastating consequences. After 60 days of torrential rain, it flooded, a massive bridge was washed away, whole communities cut off, people drowned, and chaos ensued.
I’m talking flood here. Not just a trickle. Not just a surge. It was Biblical in its proportions. Everything in its path was swept away. We were half a mile away so we didn’t die or anything. But it was very scaredy.
It was a downright terrifying experience for all concerned. And I felt I was in the eye of the storm somehow because things were so unsettled at home. Icy gale-force winds and torrential rain wrecked lots of small boats and sunk the ferry. Angry seas pounded front lawns in posh seaside suburbs in West Vancouver, sending the lawyers and dentist running for their lives. Then, the rampaging river tore out the western foundation of the Capilano Bridge span, the huge gap widened, and then the last piece of road fell in. Roaring waters swirled around the remaining structure and attacked it from both sides. The river rose about 10 feet at the flood’s peak and swept down at 20 mph. Rumors were rampant, hundreds were stranded,13 people dead, and five missing. Then I hear more terrible news: this is not the first bridge that has collapsed over my river. In 1916, a year after its official opening, the eastern approaches to the bridge collapsed after flooding undermined them. It seemed like no bridge would ever work now across the Capilano River. And I wanted to go across that river as part of my learning about my new neighborhood. It wasn’t right to be marooned.
[Note: The Capilano River was dammed in 1954.]
The conflicting emotions I experienced–pride in the emergency services and the community’s generous responses to the emergency juxtaposed with the gnawing fear of an uncertain future–mirrored the chaos within our tiny household. I was at sixes and sevens about my river. I felt betrayed by it. Abandoned. And scared out of my wits. And at this terrifying moment, my mother’s fragile mental health began to unravel. And unravel more. The outside mirrored the inside at my house. Mother’s battle with depression cast a long shadow over our lives. It plunged us deeper into despair.
Metaphorically, our sad interior life reflected the grey hopelessness of the endless rain.
“Daddy, why is Mommy always so sad?” I asked one evening. This time we were at the hardware store getting some firewood.
Daddy hated topics like these. I persisted.
“She’s going through a tough time right now, Wadi. We all have our struggles.”
“But why can’t she just be happy?”
“It’s not that simple, Doll. Your mother’s homesick for her family back in Ontario. So, she’s dealing with some lonely feelings, and sometimes it’s hard for her to see the good things in life. Just give her a little more time.”
Keywords: Capilano River, Tragedy, Depression
The Interplay of Fear and Resilience
As the months passed, time did not heal all wounds. Quite the contrary: my mother’s condition only seemed to worsen. This was way more than homesickness. It was sickness. Her mood swings became more pronounced, and her outbursts and abuse (of me) more frequent. Soon, I realized that my mother’s behavior wasn’t a passing phase–it was a symptom of something much deeper, something that would shape the course of our lives for decades to come.
As I reflect on this chapter, I feel that “Rain” is much more than a story about weather. It’s really a story about fear. Young Wendy wants to love this aspect of Nature, to confide in it, and hold it close. She sees how humans try to control it and fail. And she must accept that both she and the river have a dark side. Control, tinged with fear, becomes an issue in her life. A parent’s mental illness would drive her from her family and into another life. Escape would become her middle name.
Keywords: Community Response, Uncertainty, Despair
Facing Fear with Resilience
As I review the chapter on that tumultuous period of my life, I do so with a renewed sense of purpose and determination. I accept that I must face whatever new climate breakdown storms come my way. It’s not the rain that defines me but how I weather those storms.
My chapter is not merely about a personal journey; it’s also a contemporary story about the fragility of the human experience on Earth as we face the many uncertainties of climate breakdown. Young Wendy lives inside me. She is (mostly) hopeful, yet despairing when she finds “no place to hide.”
Escape is not an option.
Keywords: Journey, Strength, Lessons
Read more stories like this in my book, Creeksong: One Woman Sings the Climate Blues.
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