Sidewalks bleed into roads, attached by a river born from the sky. Soon, the entire street will turn into water. And not too far after that, it will disappear leaving mere puddles and groups of frogs in its wake.
It’s wild how the mind works; one second, I’m driving in East Nashville and the next, I’m transported. All it took was a quick downpour. Boom, I’m back in Thailand. Riding my motorbike through ankle deep water, swerving around cars, trying to protect my double bagged laptop under a giant green frog tog as it monsoons.
Damn, I love the rain. There is a special type of electricity in the air; an opening to the heartbeat of the sky. A release, similar to ones who grieve and finally allow water to pour from their eyes. I wonder if any of these drops once flooded the streets in Lampang or Koh Pha-ngan. Have we met before? Have we danced an electric trance, bound together by the same storm? Surely. The feeling is nearly identical. Humid, sticky air. Thunder cracking her magnetic warning.
In Thailand, the rain never stopped us from what we were doing- not for more than a few minutes to let the worst of it pass by. Life moves forward with the monsoons, integrated seamlessly into the daily flow. 5:30am alarm. Roll out of bed for a quick stroll. 15 minutes yoga. 5 minutes meditation. Pack my breakfast, double bag everything. Step outside to see the heavens open their floodgates. Quick trip back in- snag a dry towel and a giant green poncho. Shake the excess water from inside my helmet, wipe the seat, and speed off to sign into work before 7:30am.
The same traffic guards who are always there take post outside of the neighboring school, directing tiny uniformed students across the street with their umbrella clad parents. Although, this time they are head to toe in ponchos, like trees submerged in water. I swerve around a few rows of cars and broken electric lines using the unofficial bike lanes, which are now rivers, and cross a bridge into the city center. The liquid body below is nothing but rushing stone, grayed with debris and soot, running extra high.
No doubt that the morning market will go on, as all things do during monsoon season. There is a giddy type of grit that comes with living in Thailand. One where you drink an avocado smoothie tied to your wrist while soaked to the bone, balance on motorbikes, and pray that your hand woven skirt doesn’t unravel as you pass monks receiving morning alms from market goers nearby.
Physically here, mentally transported, I park my rental car and float through East Nashville for a rainy neighborhood stroll. Volleyball is canceled due to weather. I don’t mind; it gives me more time to remember when I was once chronically independent- a single pulse in the heartbeat of a community far, far away from here.
I look up to see a cotton tail deer and its two smaller friends with speckled backs. They gaze at me, eyes wide. Maybe they wonder what I’m doing, admiring them in the pouring rain. Especially in this electric air, it feels good to share space. I suppose that a pulse is a pulse, no matter where it’s placed.