The Sound of November Rain
A walk in a forest hearing frost-fed rain the day after an election
I went for a walk the day after the U.S. election. For a lot of us, even in Canada, this was a day where we didn’t really know what to do. When I don’t know what to do, I go for a walk, and best in the forest than on the streets and sidewalks around my house. Assiniboine Forest is one of my favourite places. It is the largest forest fully contained within an urban centre in all of North America.
The little parking lot on the edge of the woods is about a seven minute drive from my house. I had to scrape the frost off the car, a usual morning activity for the next five or six months of winter ahead. Some days it will be thick ice to chip away, and other days an easy brush of snow. This day, the frost was a bit heavier than it had been, but the air temperature was getting warmer so the scraping took just a few seconds.
Right as I opened the car door to set off, a few drops of water dropped onto my jacket. Shoot, it’s raining, I thought. And then I realized it was just the breeze blowing some water off the overhead branches belonging to the tree next to our driveway.
On my walk in the woods there was more “rain.” None of it landed on me. I could only hear it. The temperature was just warm enough to slowly melt the frost on the trees. Water droplets gathered themselves on every branch and grew until, too big to hang on any longer, they’d release themselves, falling to the ground below.
With the thousands of trees in the forest, it sounded like a beautiful gentle rain.
Most of the trees in this forest don’t overhang the paths, so every place I walked was free from the falling drops of water. I’d never gone for a November walk in the rain before while staying perfectly dry.
On some of the lower branches and in the bushes, you could see the droplets forming as they changed from ice to water. The skies were grey, so there was no morning light to set the water to sparkle or anything like that. But it was all so beautiful, sight, sound, and the smell of composting leaves as they drank deep the clean water rained down from the branches and brambles above.
A few weeks ago, I had written a poem about the yellowing of fall, the oncoming winter, and how it and the state of the world might make us despair, and how I really did desire to hope. And then suddenly on my walk on the day after the election, when I took time to notice, there were things in the woods that usually only appear in springtime.
I spotted some green leaves. Have you ever noticed how green really pops right after the rain? It’s just the same when the rain comes from melting frost. It was surprising to see green in November.
I pushed a lingering worry about climate change out of my mind. That could be for another day. Today, I would cling to other thoughts, to hope as best I could. I thought instead of the Land of Narnia when their seemingly endless winter begins to end, the signs of spring a notice that the time is up on the regime of their oppressive ruler.
Maybe Narnia also came to mind because I knew I was about to pass one of my favourite places in Assiniboine Forest. Right in the middle of what seems like nowhere is a red fire hydrant. This always reminds me of the Narnia lamppost, seemingly out of place, something constructed in the midst of an otherwise completely wild world.
I included my encounter with this fire hydrant in a sermon a number of years ago (which you can listen to here) where I talked about how joy often surprises us. I’m always truly delighted when I pass the fire hydrant in the forest. But as I stopped to take a picture, further thoughts of Narnia and lampposts and delightful surprises passed me by.
Instead, I marvelled at how someone at some point planned for there to be a fire hydrant here. It is nowhere near a road, only accessible by foot and maybe ATV, but there it is. Someone had enough foresight to plan for potential disaster for this beautiful part of the city I live in. Someone planned for this forest to be protected. I was thankful.
As I walked out of the forest the sound of the rain was lessening. I didn’t speculate about what new thing may come in the future. I didn’t have the energy to think about what I might do in the days, weeks, or years ahead to work toward a brighter, more just, and beautiful future.
Sometimes a cold frost turns into rain… a rain that feeds the earth but leaves pathway safe and dry… And on this day, perhaps, a rare November promise that though the winter will be long, spring will come again.
Such a soothing and much needed post. Thanks Matt for such poetic writing.