Out of the Blue, Rain

This is a true story.

I’ve written about it before - though not on Substack. It’s one of those stories that stretches credulity - for some the stretch is too much. As a result the teller of the story, can be viewed as suspicious.

Whatever.

I tell it from both memory and the journal entries I made at the time.

Christmas of 1998. I was living in Northridge California. As I recall it a lovely day. Warmish, with clear skies. I was in the kitchen, preparing dinner.

Outside my sister, Mary, and her boyfriend, Charlie (now husband) were walking the yard. There were two concrete paths one could take, just off the patio, that led to an iron fence and gates to the pooled area, beyond that in the lower yard, some fruit trees and a paddle tennis court. (Flusher times, to be sure.)

Standing at the sink, I heard Mary call me; I left the kitchen and made my way down the left pathway past the upper yard where I found them both by the gate.

She was looking up. “It’s raining.” Her hands were extended out, palms up. “You feel it?”

I put my hands out, palms up and waited. It took only a moment to feel the tiny light drops of rain as they landed and then almost immediately vanished in my hand.

“Huh.” I looked upwards to clear blue sky. “Where is this coming from?”

Charlie shook his head.

We three walked the area, attempting to define the perimeters of this… rain. Was it raining over there? How bout over here? It was falling near the concrete wall that separated my yard from the neighbors thought we couldn’t determine if it extended into their yard.

Huh.

It was raining partly under a tree in the yard, but it was mainly raining in an area with no trees. A light, very very light, rain. If you stared at the concrete pathway, you could see the drops land and then quickly disappear, being immediately absorbed.

If you put your face up to the sky to feel the drops on it - same thing. Very soft drops that rather than made you wet, disappeared into your skin. A rain that barely left a trace.

Best we could figure, the rain fell in an area maybe 20’ or so in length and 10’ or so, in its width; finding clear edges to this oddity was not really possible.

I had Christmas dinner to cook, and so headed, fully befuddled, back into the house.

The next day, it continued to rain. Same thing, though as I walked the area again, attempting to identify its perimeters, I thought it had moved slightly in one direction.

I sat down under it on the walkway and watched as the small droplets hit and then disappear into the concrete. I thought about how as I child I could see all kinds of movement in the air and a definite ‘rain’ that didn’t drop water but never let up.

On one occasion as a child in school - second grade - I was staring out the window where a wind was picking up. My teacher asked me to take my seat and I said something about watching the wind. She responded that I couldn’t see the wind but only its effects - like in the blowing leaves and such.

This was a bit of a shock and created immediate confusion. Because, I could see the wind. Just like I could see the invisible rain that fell all the time, continuously. It was super light and super fast and it never stopped but it also wasn’t a wet rain. It was like a “light” rain. Occasionally you could see hints of color in it, and little dots or bursts pop, appear than disappear, or move rapidly in unexpected directions. It was very dynamic.

When I got home from school that day, I told my mother how the teacher said you couldn’t see wind. I told her I could and I thought everyone could. Could she see the wind? Could she see the invisible rain that never stopped?

Unlike my teacher, my mother was fascinated and asked me to describe what I saw. She told me that, no, she could not see it but she had no doubt I could. She assured me there was nothing wrong in that, and that there were other people too, who saw such things. She also said that some people who didn’t see it, wouldn’t necessarily believe the people who did. (In other words, as even my seven year old self understood, maybe don’t talk about it.)

The rain now falling in my yard in California decades later was sort of like that invisible rain. Only this was obviously physical - anyone could see it and feel it. Still it reminded me of the rain I watched as a kid. There was a similar quality to it.

But it was a long time since I was a kid and back then I didn’t require logical explanations for things. As an adult, I did.

I went to the local bookstore to see if I could find a book that might explain this rain. The very first book I happened upon was a book of poems by Rumi, called Unseen Rain. No joke. That’s the first book my eyes landed on as I entered the shop and confronted the book display.

I turned it over and read from the back cover the following: In some languages of the Middle East the word for "rain" and the work for "grace" are the same.

Oh, of course, it’s grace. I thought. Supplied now with the answer to my question, I continued searching.

I called the local TV station and asked for Fritz, the weather guy. To my surprise he was quickly on the phone. I said, “Hi. It’s been raining in one section of my yard for a few days now. Are you familiar with this, have you seen or heard of this phenomena? Could you explain it?”

Fritz replied, something close to, “It’s clear skies throughout the San Fernando Valley. No rain is falling in the Valley.”

“Well, yeah, I know. I live in the Valley. That’s the thing, it is raining in one spot in my yard. For days now.”

“There is no rain falling in the Valley. Clear skies,” he reiterated.

“Okay I understand it’s not raining in the Valley. Clear skies and no rain is normal, clear skies and rain is why I’m calling. In just one particular part of the yard. Have you ever heard of that?”

Fritz took a moment then said he would send a van to check it out. He hung up without taking my address.

I called one of science teachers at my kid’s school who I had a friendly relationship with.

“Hi, Linda. I have a quick, odd question for ya.”

“Sure.”

“There’s an area in my yard where it’s been raining lightly for a few days. Just one spot. Do you know what might explain that?”

“Umm… what do you mean in one spot?”

“Well, I mean just that. This one area - maybe 20 feet by 10 feet, give or take, though it moves around a little. For days, a light rain in just that area. Any ideas what that could be?”

“Is there a tree there?”

“Yeah there is a tree, but it’s not raining only under the tree. There’s rain falling around the tree too, not just under it.”

“It has to be some kind of sap from the tree.”

This was getting frustrating. “Umm, no. It’s not a sap. It’s not sticky and it’s not just under the tree. “Maybe you could stop over and take a look?” I knew where she lived, it was not far from my house.

“It has to be the tree. It’s not possible to be raining.” Her tone turned impatient.

“Okay. Well, thanks.” We hung up. Linda avoided eye contact with me for weeks after that exchange. (I later learned from my son, that when he told her about the rain, she accused him of lying.)

I took to sitting under the rain on the concrete pathway. Day after day.

On the 5th anniversary of the Northridge earthquake - January 17 and three weeks into the mysterious rain - an acquaintance who worked for NPR came over to do an interview for a radio program. She wanted to record my experience in the aftermath of the quake. We sat outside on the patio and had tea while she recorded our talk. When the interview was done, I mentioned to her, how it was raining - just several feet from where we sat.

With a quizzical expression, she got up and we walked the short distance to the rain. Let’s call her Celine. Celine assumed the position: hands out, palms up and quickly felt the drops. She roamed the area, while I relayed the story of when we discovered it and my subsequent inquiries into its source.

She quietly nodded. “It is really strange.”

I agreed.

Shortly after I walked Celine to her car. I expected she’d want to look into the rain more, maybe do a story on it. Or maybe tell someone at NPR about it. I mean, it was at the very least, newsworthy.

As she opened her car door, she asked. “What do you think it is?”

“Well,” I shrugged, feeling a bit self-conscious with what I was going to say, “I think it is grace - like the Rumi book I mentioned. Grace is like a rain. And it’s been described by others too,” I added, as if I needed the backup. (I did not tell her about my invisible rain sightings as a kid.)

Celine put her recording device in the car. “But what do you really think it is?” she asked.

I have other stories about the rain. About friends who sat outside on the patio who, when I mentioned that it was raining, just several feet away, would act as if I’d started speaking in another language and wouldn’t even bother to get up and look.

I began to recognize how some people didn’t have any reference for this sort of thing; no “Unexplained Files” cabinet in their minds in which to even place such a thing temporarily. So, it went, ignored.

My mother and other sister who lived on the east coast flew over to sit under the rain. My kids enjoyed it, but its remarkable presence was matched by the unremarkable and common experience of rain, and so the phenomenon couldn’t really hold their attention very long. Their friends thought it was cool, but after stating as much, would quickly run off to play.

Rain is like that. So absolutely familiar that even when it comes out of clear blue skies it still feels… normal.

I sat under it, pretty much every day - even if I only had a few minutes. Once, when I had more time under the rain, I laid down on the ground and really relaxed into it. After a while, I felt a bubbling up in me, like an inner dam was trying to break. The rain acted as a kind of gentle nudge, and without my realizing it, had been slowing working some inner knot which was now, giving way.

A surge of joy moved through my body. I laughed and cried at once. In an instant I remembered that I loved this planet and that I wanted to be here. Something I never said. Rather my “story” was that I arrived here by mistake; that there was some kind of screw up. I had determined this at the age of thirteen and always believed it. The rain was telling me something else. It was putting an end to that story and reminding me of something I had forgotten or found too painful to include.

I was taking some classes at CSU Northridge (California State University, Northridge) and had become friendly with one of my professors who taught an Indian philosophy class. (He was born in India.) He was mostly retired but taught the one class. There was a lovely garden area on the campus, with many old trees and I was fond of reading there. We were both big tree people and I would occasionally run into him there, usually while he was eating an orange. We would stroll the garden when time allowed, and he would tell me stories - some about trees, some not.

It was Spring now, months had passed since the rain started. I told him about it.

He listened intently as I spoke, while continuing to quietly peel off sections of orange and pop them whole into his mouth. I told him about Christmas day, Unseen Rain, the weather guy and science teacher the NPR person and other rain stories.

When I was done recounting it all, I asked him what did he make of all of this?

He was quiet for a little bit. He smiled.

“I think you got your answer. And then, you wanted more answers.”

“Yeah. I guess that’s true.”

He handed me a piece of his orange and we got up to stroll through the gardens.

The rain stopped at the end of May 1999. It had rained for 5 months.

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