A true story of a travel experience given in a style approximating prose poetry. The prosimetric genre used in this piece is a variety of haibun, a literary form often associated with Matsuo Basho.
Rain
Let the rain kiss you
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops
Let the rain sing you a lullaby
Noah was 600 years old when the windows of heaven opened. What are forty days of rain when one has lived that long. For me, eight days were enough. Cycling from Chicago to Clearwater, Florida, setting up my tent in the rain, packing it away in the rain, pushing slippery pedals through the rain, I was soaked to the bone. The rain had kissed me, it had sung to me, it had brought the very heavens down upon my head – but there appeared no dove with an olive leaf.
God moves in a mysterious way. These words, composed by William Cowper shortly before he attempted suicide by drowning, found their rhythm in a rainy night in Georgia, along a puddled highway, in the flickering light of a small motel, where I stopped and requested a room, only to be told all the rooms were taken, but one, which the kindly proprietor offered at half price, for there was a leak in the roof, somewhere over the bed. Deep down my soggy brain a still small voice whispered “it’s all right,” the flooded night should pass and I would place a pillow on my head and there the rain could beat its muffled tune.
When Tony Joe White wrote his now famous song he knew he had to write about something he knew. He knew a lot of rainy nights (and days too I suppose) and his song sold a million copies. I counted the raindrops that night in Georgia, like sheep, in the hope of slipping into a peaceful slumber. There may have been a million, none were missing. Researchers at Oxford University have found that imagining a waterfall might work as well as sheep – but, well, I had enough of water, and though I failed to pull the wool over my eyes, I took solace in the raindropped baptism of my relatively anhydrous pillowed cowl. I must have dreamed.
rain lifts the little boat
I trail my oars and let
the waters let me go
In the Lotus Sutra, the Buddha tells of the rain that falls on all plant life: It is the same rain for all, yet each grows in its own way. I had received my full share of rain, the heavens had watered me in accordance with my needs so that I might be lifted, joyous and exuberant, into the sun which shines, sooner or later, equally on all.
autumn rain
one deep breath
through a bamboo flute
The morrow came and the sun shone and my bicycle glistened in the doorway. The road stretched out before me, the earthly mud at its edges and its smooth surface gleaming in the open air. I rode on.
rain rinsed air
pilling sunlight
in the steady stream
The lines at the beginning are from the poem “April Rain Song” by Langston Hughes.
I sold my bicycle in my sophomore year of high school, growing up to cars. But when I was 21, with my hands and arms paralyzed, going back to college I put my sister's midsize bike in the huge trunk of my hundred dollar DeSoto, and rode it to class from my rented room six blocks from campus. The front basket was a convenient place to put my books and my hand splint.
Years later, I took my twin brothers on an adventurous seven day canoe trip to the boundary waters between Minnesota and Ontario. It rained five of the seven days, until one day one of my younger brothers, nearly cracked until we got a fire going when the other brother found dry wood at the base a dead tree, the rain stopped, and we had a hot meal of fresh caught fish. Everywhere, you could you could dip your glass in the lake or river, and drink it without worry. A true wilderness nurtured by plentiful rain.
Your story is remarkable. Just the ability to ride your bicycle from Chicago to Florida without mishap is story enough, but you have shared your great knowledge of both literature and song as well. But to make that ride with all that rain makes it even more remarkable. Serendipity like mine led you to that half-price motel room just when you needed it. Wonderful.
Recently, I have listened to Brook Benton singing that wonderful Tony White song. It gives a feeling you probably had in that motel room. Reminds me to listen to Elvis sing about the "cold Kentucky rain." A similar mournful song of loss.
Perfect for fans of Bill Bryson, Elizabeth Gilbert, and Cheryl Strayed, this is more than a travelogue—it's a hilarious and heartfelt journey for anyone who has ever wondered: "Is this it?"
