Yeah!! The Rain!

In 1991 Ian McMillan passed away.  He had lived here, in our local San Luis Obispo area, and worked tirelessly to protect the splendors of nature.  At the time of his death, we had been experiencing a profound drought and our rainy months of November, December, January and February passed with barely a drop.  But then, Ian died and we had what came to be known as the "The Miracle March."  It rained.  It poured.  We had gentle soaking rains that opened the soil so it could hold the water.  And then we had thundering down pours that fill our reservoirs.  And, not only that, we had rain every month for the rest of that year.  It was great.  And what people had said would take us twelve years to accomplish, water-wise, happened in just one.

Last month, our friend Allyson Nakasone passed away.  She was another wonderful local environmentalist, having been the executive director of our ECOSLO, Environmental Center of San Luis Obispo, for a time.  And she did a great job there.  As her successor, Pam Harrington noted, "Give Allyson two beers and she could get anything done."

So now, here we are in the worst drought our state has seen in all of it's recorded history.  This drought even tops the one John Steinbeck famously wrote about in my favorite of his novels, To A God Unknown, which describes how the great drought of the late 1800's affected the lives of Californians.  As happened then, even the oak trees are suffering.  As I look out over the groves of oaks that so picturesquely grace the flowing hills that skirt our beautiful "Seven Sisters" Volcanic peaks, I see some that are turning grey from having dropped their leaves.

These magnificent trees often live 350 years.  So, the maturest among them were youngsters during that former California drought.  The oaks are our primary native food plant in this area.  They are why the first nations peoples, the Chumash, were comparatively so wealthy.  With the abundant acorns as their staple food, they didn't have to work so hard to survive and had more time for art, trading, leisure and ceremony.

As our drought has settled in and especially as this winter and spring came and went with barely any rain, I've been speaking with our trees and suggesting that they do as Michael Roads advised during the recent great Australian drought where they went for seven years with out a drop of rain.  He told the Australian evergreens in his area to drop their leaves and save their vitality in their trunks and branches like deciduous trees do in winter's cold.  They did and it worked.  When the drought was finally broken, his trees leafed out and their lives were spared, whereas most of Australia's native forests died for the lack of rain.

Our weather here in San Luis Obispo is beautiful.  We joke about the weather report because with such consistent repetition  a report seems silly.  It is always sonny and warm, but not too hot.  Sometimes we have fog in the mornings and it is often breezy in the afternoons.  So, as we were heading out for Allyson's memorial, the day before yesterday, I was delighted to see some clouds gathering end even better yet, coming from the south.  So, I said to Frank, "Hey look, maybe Allyson is going to bring us some rain."  It was nice and sunny for her memorial the the Botanical garden and even the same for another friends 98th birthday party which we also attended later that day.

As I lay in bed that night, dozing, I kept being woken by what I thought might have been the flash photography of some late night revelers in the neighborhood.  But then, as it persisted, I went out into the night to see.  I was thrilled to find that it was lightening, no thunder, as it was too distant, but frequent flashes and some very soft occasional rumbles.  By the wee hours of first light, the rain was coming down, gentle at first, then really falling in sheets.  I slipped out to the patio in my bare feet and turned my face to the sky.  The drops fell with ever surprising little pats on my skin, soaking into my hair, until I was slick and dripping and dancing and twirling with delight.  Wet and elated I snuck back indoors, leaving little pools and puddles on the floor.  I dried myself off and slipped with wet hair back into the bed and whispered, "Thank you Allyson for the lovely rain."

© Josephine Laing, 2015

Reclaiming Our Connection With Water

In 2010, PBS aired a show called "Next Year Country.  In it, Matt Ryan, a rainmaker from Mount Shasta was called to North Eastern Montana to come to the aid of three families who were experiencing a profound drought.  The situation had become so dire that they were about to loose their farms.  The rainmaker brought large metal pipes and laid them out on the ground moving them from time to time for two weeks.  Then he left.  The drought persisted throughout the rest of the state, but the North East Corner, where the three families lived had heavy rains and an abundant harvest. 

In 1983, Shirley MacLaine, the American Film Actress wrote an autobiographical account of her explorations into the infinite possibilities of life in her book, Out On A Limb.  There in the mountains of Peru, she tells of her experience in calling the weather to change.  Vicki Noble in Shakti Woman speaks of the same phenomena.  This inspired me to play with that energy as well.  And you know what?  It worked.  Standing in openhearted harmony with the beauty and sacred interconnection of all things, while engaging my imagination and holding to my intention, I have engaged my sense of command and parted the clouds or called the rain. 

Last year in my women's circle, we all went out back with some simple dowsing rods and walked around an old abandoned two story brick building.  The dowsing rods swung together and touched every time one of us walked across an irrigation line or water pipe.  It took us a while to realize that that was why our rods were crossing, but then we saw the spigot and the meter.  The rods also swung right where the vetch was growing lushly in the sparse field.  Vetch has deep roots that reach down and pull water up to the top layers of the soil.

My grandfather was a 'Water Witcher.'  Most of the folks in his part of the Midwest didn't want to have anything to do with psychic ability and abruptly dismissed it out of hand.  But somehow, dowsing slipped through the cracks of acceptability.  Using an old forked willow branch, he would hold it in his hands, letting the end that would have been closest to the root zone point out in front of him.  Then he would walk the land.  He would start off for the places where water would likely be, and then he'd move along until the branch dipped sharply down toward the ground and told him the life giving liquid was near.  All the farmers in his section of the country called him to help find a good spot whenever a well was needed. 

As we round the bend into the last months of our rainy season, here in California, where the reservoirs are still low from the last few years of drought, I am wondering how many of us, when we see those big cumulus clouds overhead would prefer not to have it rain today.  Perhaps we just washed the car or have plans for a garden party.  Maybe the new roof is not yet on that house we are building for that young couple with the baby.  Or, perhaps we are thinking how there is still no rain.  'No rain.'  "Not enough to do the trick."  How influential are our thoughts and words?  How deep do these infinite possibilities run?  My experiences have shown me that the subtle energies of nature are willing to join their wisdoms with ours.  But we do need to step into concert with them, open up and ask.  When we do, they respond.  So I invite you to join me in reclaiming our connection with water.  Let's use our imagination to feel and smell,taste, hear, thrill at and call the rain?

© Josephine Laing, 2015