It’s raining. I woke in the early hours of the morning to the steady sound of rain. Normally I would find this a deep comfort and sensual pleasure. The sound of rain and the smell of the wet earth along with the knowledge of the benefits for our gardens and vegetal life. But this time it is tinged with a little fear. This is the rain that has been falling steadily down the east coast of Australia causing enormous havoc in Brisbane, Sydney and towns along the coast. I know at least one family who have had to evacuate. I cannot imagine what it feels like to have your home surrounded by floodwaters. The rain was predicted and I have wondered what it would feel like to have the Yarra rise to unknown levels and whether my home would remain safe. I sit here writing to its steady insistent sound, letting it fill my imaginary to see how its unbroken rhythm might affect my writing. It is water – fluid, wet, falling heavily but with no violent force. It is in its insistence that the latent fear lies. Water is deceptively powerful, its constancy wears surfaces down, rounding the edges of the sharpest rocks, smoothing the banks of rivers, whilst cutting through and between to forge rivers in mountain terrain.
I am listening to the weight and fall of the rain. It is steady. The day will be soggy, damp and close. The slight concern I have is balanced by my pleasure. As a West Australian rain was always something to celebrate. Its capacity to cool the earth and invite an interiority was a welcome shift from the extraversion that the sun and beach culture offer. My first experience of snow brought this also. The silence of snow was extraordinary. The world went silent. The depth of white all around a source of wonder. I was enchanted even with the deep cold that accompanied it.
Water becomes snow, ice, rain, mist, steam. Water is dynamic – it can be stagnant, still, flowing, swirling, raging. Its many forms and manifestations bring us different elemental experiences of the natural world. Water is transformative – we see the result of this in our gardens and in the surrounding country. We perceive growth spurts to delight the senses. After rain the air smells cleaner, when it starts we have the *petrichor, that magical smell that rises from hot earth. It is the sheer magnitude of water in these recent deluges that has been frightening and awe inspiring. The Brisbane River sweeping everything before it – boats, cars, jetties, breaking things apart as it rages.
The earth is suffering. I am sure of this. What is transpiring is apocalyptic – fires, disease, floods and famine in its wake as food sources are impacted. There is an impatience to return to ‘normal’ after Covid but what is normal now? This is what we have been told will happen. It is not an anomaly. There is the interweaving of a longer story from an indigenous point of view and there is the effect of what humans have done to the powerful but fragile ecosystems over centuries of colonisation, capitalism and its associated greed.
The earth gives us so much pleasure and nourishment and perhaps like our bodies we don’t pay attention until we are suffering. The earth is suffering. And she will do what she needs to heal herself, expelling what is needed to survive.
*Petrichor is the term coined by Australian scientists in 1964 to describe the unique, earthy smell associated with rain falling on dry soil. It is caused by the water from the rain, along with certain compounds like ozone, geosmin, and plant oils. The word is constructed from Ancient Greek πέτρα 'rock', or πέτρος 'stone', and ἰχώρ, the ethereal fluid that is the blood of the gods in Greek mythology. Wikipedia