The Morning After It Rains
Rain. Both the people and the red earth of Alice Springs soak it up every time it falls. This past week, the sky darkened to overcast, and the raindrops fell. An earthy scent hung in the air and the temperature dropped. I heard the tapping of rain on my roof, and the little-used windscreen wipers on my car got a rare workout as I drove around town. Mist laced the MacDonnell Ranges which loom over Alice, veiling the rust-colored ridges in films of white. It has been a long time coming.
When it rains in Alice, the whole town
rejoices, and often, it is a time for people to come together. The rain that
fell this week was not the heaviest Alice has seen – the Todd River did not
flow. In other instances, when the water has churned down the once-dry Todd, the
roads close and residents wade into the water spilling over the crossings. It
is a place to catch up with friends and watch children from all backgrounds
play. A trip out to the clay pans after rain provides a beautiful view – and an
opportunity to get bogged if you’re not careful.
Rain washes away the dry and makes room for a fresh outlook. The light on the morning after it rained this week was pale and then intensified, washing over plants and soil alike. The clear blue sky spoke of newness and fresh beginnings.
As our borders close yet again, we lock in the natural beauty of the landscape. We look beyond the grey clouds to those people, both in other states and within the Territory, whose skies have also darkened for a time. Most people in this town have connections to people in other parts of Australia. They come from other cities or have families. Many thoughts and prayers fly across the desert to these places as restrictions tighten.
There is a local legend in Alice Springs: If you see the Todd River flow three times, you’re a local. For some, this can happen in a matter of weeks, when the rain is heavy, and frequent storms roll in. For others, it may take a few years. Central Australia is a land of extremes, that can often seem slim on hope. The dry earth can seem too dry, and the rain too seldom.
We sit in the middle of Australia, and we feel our remoteness. Last
year, planes were grounded and there was a roadblock at both ends of town – no
one could enter, few people left. The Northern Territory was sliced into
biosecurity zones that prevented travel. This year, flights have again been canceled, and people anxiously watch the news to see how long they must put off reunions
with loved ones, and how close this virus gets.
Rain reminds us that
no matter how long it takes for something to happen, refreshment still comes. We remember that nothing dry lasts forever, and it is
possible for the old to be washed away and the new to arrive. We look within and beyond our
town, and we stand with others both close and far away. And most of all, in the midst
of uncertainty, we persevere.