Lluvia

Friends, you may not believe it when I tell you, but I will tell you anyway.

The friars had just finished reciting morning prayer in the chapel. Back in my room, I was sitting at my computer, full of feelings, full of thoughts. My window shutters were still closed. But my ears began to pick up the sound. Outside, the drizzle of water, like a drumroll. Here in Cochabamba it showers more often in the afternoon than in the morning. No wonder my ears picked up on the sound. An unexpected visitor.

Then, suddenly, an impulse. No, an imperative. Go. Now.

I had been sitting in my sleepwear, a black undershirt and green bottoms. Swiftly, I put on my old brown boots and threw on an even older blue raincoat. That’s all. Nothing else. No umbrella.

I strode out quickly, along the balcony, down the stairs, to the cloister garden. I passed only one friar on the way, who must have wondered at my slovenly dress. Carmelo, my canine nemesis, barked his disapproval: Go back inside!

No. It’s time.

And there I was, in the cloister garden, staring up at the light-and-dark gray sky, feeling the drops pat my face and eyeglasses. I began to slick my hair back. I turned around and around, facing every direction of the garden. Pacing to the north, the south, the east, and the west, I looked at the fruit trees: thank you. I looked at the flowers on the trellises: thank you. I looked at the statue of St. Francis and the Wolf: thank you. I looked for the fish in the fountain, hiding low in the pool: thank you.

Fray Freddie saw me from the north balcony. He called out to me: Hermano, ¿Qué tal? ¿Cómo está? How was I doing? I answered him: Estoy estupendo. La lluvia es bella. El jardín es bello. Yes, brother, I feel fantastic, and everything is truly beautiful. To him I must have looked like a character in a Fellini or Rossellini film.

The rain began to fall harder. I rolled up the sleeves of my raincoat. I unbuttoned the slicker, and I tilted my head back, letting the drops fall on my shirt. The air was neither too warm nor too cool. How good it felt on my skin. How good the moisture, the weight, of my soaked raincoat felt on my outstretched arms and shoulders.

By now the drizzle had become a sizzle, on the grass, on the trees, on the stones, on the tiles. There are two words for rain in Spanish: llovizna for a light shower, and lluvia for a heavy shower. La Niña Llovizna gave way to La Hermana Lluvia. There I stayed with her in the garden, my body absorbing it all, my mind and my heart stilled. All my preoccupations washed away. A morning ablution.

With final salutations to the north, south, east, and west, I left the garden. Carmelo barked one last reproach as I returned to my room. I peeled off the raincoat and removed my shoes. I took a look at myself in the bathroom mirror. I was glistening, from my hair and face down to the neckline of my undershirt.

You ask: Why did you do it? I answer: Because my heart was on fire.

As I write this, I’m missing the main part of the Corso de Corsos, the climax of Carnaval in Cochabamba. But this, I’ve missed this even more. The Corso will keep running all day. I will catch up to it. For, at last, I have let the rain fall down on me.