The contemplations of a rainstorm

As anyone who’s ever had to carry buckets full of it knows, water is heavy. Online sources inform me a gallon weighs about 8.3 pounds, which means someone with a classic five-gallon bucket is lifting somewhere around 40 pounds, depending on how close they’ve brought the water to the brim.

 

Any amount of reading about good old H20 quickly brings you to the conclusion it must be the product of design rather than chance. Perhaps the largest point is that, unlike any other substance, water expands when it freezes, becoming buoyant. If that weren’t the case–if like every other substance, it contracted when it turns solid–each year’s ice would become a giant weight that would sink to the bottom of the body of water, killing everything down there as it builds up, robbing the depths of their ability to support life. 

 

The properties of water are a topic we should all take a few minutes to contemplate every now and then, given that it constitutes something like 60 percent of our makeup, and that, if we were deprived of both food and water, we would expire from dehydration long before we would starve.

 

My recent contemplation was inspired by a rainstorm.

 

It was about 7:30 a.m. when I heard the thunder. When I looked outside, I could see a wall of rain moving toward my house across the field, blocking out all view of the landscape behind.

 

I heard a few taps on the windows, then seconds later I could barely see the yard and it sounded as if a cattle drive was taking place on the roof.

 

As I do nearly every time I feel besieged by a rainstorm, I said to myself in wonder, “The sky held all that water up.”

 

Really, how is that possible? Okay, yes, I understand the science behind it–it’s all water vapor, fog, essentially–until atmospheric conditions change and it condenses into its liquid form. But understanding the science doesn’t make it any less awe-inspiring.

 

We’re back to the idea that water has to have been designed–what other necessary substances become lighter than air for easy transport? Then, once delivered, become heavy and fluid enough to flow downhill and rejoin the water cycle…or even seep through soil and rock to be stored, potentially for millenia, as groundwater?

 

It happens that, around 8 a.m. when the rain was still going strong, I found it necessary to cross my yard to get to my car.

 

I want you to know, I own a spectacular “golf” size umbrella. I take genuine delight in walking under it in the rain because it feels as if I am under a portable roof. The water thumps down on it, then runs to the side, leaving enough protected dry space underneath for a small family.

But guess where the umbrella is kept?

 

I don’t share all this to elicit your commiseration. I put a raincoat over my head, walked to the car, and came back to the house with only a few wet spots on my clothing; I wasn’t bothered or disturbed. But I was inspired to see something from a new perspective.

 

In each direction, I walked under the spreading maple tree that grows in front of my house. As I did, I realized I was ducking rather low to avoid brushing against the wet branches.

 

And suddenly I was forced to pay attention to something I’d never really thought about before. The weight of the water–the 8.3 pounds per gallon of the accumulated raindrops being held up by each of the thousands of hand-sized leaves–was bowing the branches gently downward. Especially the thin, flexible newer growth near the end was at least a foot closer to the ground than usual.

 

We’re all used to the idea that, at least for a while, we can take shelter under a tree when it’s raining because the tree blocks the rain. But that’s not really what’s happening: the tree is catching the rain and dividing it across–another wonder to think about–the utterly massive surface area of its leaves. Most of the water will eventually find a winding path to the ground, but at least some of it will stay where it is, perhaps providing conveniently delivered hydration for birds or insects. Over time, it will likely take the opportunity to become water vapor again, returning to the air without ever reaching the ground. 

 

No wonder I like rainstorms. They give a person so much to think about.