Terena Scott

I walk in the rain, delighting in the feel of soft raindrops falling on my face. The air is fresh with the smell of damp leaves and that incredible scent created by cement at the first lick of moisture.

I’m walking in this rainstorm because my skin is hot from rage. I am sweaty from pushing my muscles up hill, needing to feel my lungs burn with effort. Heart pounding against my ribs, I stop at the top of the hill and look behind me toward the Bay. Multicolored container ships dot the gray water and I wonder where they came from. A crow lands on a fence post near me and caws loudly. I say hello.

In that moment, my body is balanced between anger and joy. Anger from yet another unreturned phone call from a doctor who could help my child. Joy because the rain is soft and the crow’s black wings look even blacker when wet. Anger that I work two jobs to keep a roof over my child’s head, and joy that I can live on such a quiet street with kind neighbors and a view of the Bay. The anger doesn’t leave my body but it softens. My burning lungs are cooled by the taste of rain falling heavier now.

Anger and joy. We think of them as opposite emotions, like magnets pushing away from each other. But I’ve learned that emotions flow like watercolors, mixing, separating and then combining again. I say, “I am angry” when I feel anger, and it’s true. But what other feelings press against the anger? The rush of rage sends me outdoors to walk up and down steep hills in the rain. But then an iridescent black crow says hello and I am reminded of how beautiful the world is. If I hold onto rage I miss the sound of raindrops as they scatter through tree leaves. If I ignore rage, I am unable to push myself up steep hills.

So I hold joy and rage in each hand at once, then open my fingers to feel the rain.