Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head

It has been raining consistently now for four days during a period that is normally bathed in that glorious Southern California winter sunlight. The smell of petrichor in the air, however, is just as welcome. The restlessness, less so.

In the periods between the rains, I take my chances and venture to the trails maintained by the Boy Scouts, enjoying the quiet that hangs in the mist. Twice, I have been caught in a downpour, and Oddi and I have had to make a run for it though she doesn’t seem much bothered by it. A friend mentioned that the dogs’ shake is highly effective to the degree of getting rid of 70% of the water in the fur. Oddi is also unperturbed by the fallen trees and branches we encounter.

Once dignified oaks have been uprooted and lie helpless across the paths. Thin layers of moss blanket swaths of dark, wet earth that are normally bare and dry. Fungi of all kinds flourish; I see mushrooms with a wide thick cap reminiscent of portobellos that would be great on a veggie burger if edible.

I hear the raindrops off of trees still standing, splattering, on the synthetic exterior of my raincoat. My breath is deep and visible, inhaling as much of that indescribable freshness normally reserved for early hours of the morning. I smile, listening to the mix of wet gravel and those spiky little oak leaves crunching beneath my soles; the latter reminds me of the sound of a hard taco shell splintering. It’s a delicious sound.

Journeying in the canyons, Oddi stops tentatively at a stream that runs dry far more often than not. Both front paws dipped in the water, we laps it up. If we were at a higher elevation with a better sense of water quality, it would be perfect for brewing tea. It is well-known but perhaps not quite a truism, that live water (活水) enhances all teas. Not all water is created equal.

Alone by the stream, listening the water rush by with gusto, I think of an essay by Joan Didion in The White Album. She makes a point about Malibu, where she lived for many years up until the early 2000s when her husband died of a heart attack at their dinner table, and how the mere mention of the city has become a symbol of the easy life.

It’s an observation tinged with irony for if you take a closer look at the weather patterns there, you will find a place plagued by extremes. When the wildfires rage with encouragement from the Santa Ana winds, Malibu is right on the front line and burns baby. And then when the rain decides to make an appearance for a few consecutive days, the mudslides hit Malibu structures harder than other areas. With the fires having burnt up the vegetation, there are no roots to old onto the soil, so extreme erosion occurs with the onset of precipitation and houses along that coast are disproportionately affected. Anytime one of these natural disasters strikes, Malibu never fails to pop up on the evening news. So, in reality, it is a rather precarious place to live.