Our area of Oregon is famous for rain. Except it isn’t rain, it’s really just drizzle. Continuous, dreary drizzle. Until now.
A new term entered my vocabulary this week: “atmospheric river.” The entire west coast is being dumped on right now, particularly Northern California. I love drumming rain, but this is crazy.
It’s been scary to watch the news coverage of the flooding, because I remember. I grew up in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains, and I’m old enough to have seen the wide (and usually empty) Tujunga Wash boil to overflowing with brown water. At night, there was clicking. Not the sound of insects, but of boulders colliding in the angry flood.
Usually Big Tujunga Creek is just a trickle. From a distance, you know it’s there because only because of the scrub oaks and sycamores. During the dry season. the water is underground–you have to dig for it. Until the deluge comes.
This kind of reminds me of the writing life. Sometimes I have to dig for words. At other times, there comes an unstoppable torrent. Today I’m on holiday from school and I’m loving it.
So the rain is pounding down–a sound I love, for I am still a California girl at heart–and I’m expectantly writing. Tell you what, I’d sure welcome an “atmospheric river” of words.