The weather here is phenomenal. This is a given. Only, you just don't understand unless you live here, and even then, it will take a while. With almost 5 months as a resident, I know that I still don't fully comprehend the beauty of this weather; it will take years. But I have enjoyed the mangoes; there are so many types that we have a festival here to enjoy the orchestra of the flavors and variations of this delicious fruit. Rain here can be just as delicious as those mangoes.
In the summer, it gets pretty hot where we live. We are at 500 feet elevation and daily it gets to 89 degrees. I believe we had a few days up to 92. It is humid, but no worse than it ever was in Maryland or even Chicago. There is rain, usually at night; and we have had one day being overcast at around 200 feet elevation where I work; my husband, Mike, says it has been overcast at our home for few more days than that since we've been here. Sometimes we get a warm shower in the afternoon. I needed an umbrella one day and didn't have it.
The rain varies here. I remember reading once that in an Eskimo-Anuet language, there are different word suffixes to describe types of snow. I used to try to determine the types of snow we got in Chicago; I counted at least 5 different types. Here, the same idea is true of the rain.
The first rain I really paid attention to here felt like the soft hair brushing across my shoulders and tickling my back. My clothing got a bit wet, but it was warm and gentle. I couldn't see the individual droplets because they were so fine and long, laying gently all around me.
We have had a tricky rain. The sidewalk and road told me that when I walked outdoors I would get very wet; puddles had developed in pukas (holes) in the ground and the drops bounced back upward in response to the force with which it dropped from high in the sky. But when I walked outside, it giggled as it ran away from me to play hide and seek. I thought I could feel it tap my shoulder but before I could look to see it, it was already gone.
There's a rain that only comes at night. It sounds like rhythmic tapping against the roof in an ancient hula song, and the shimmer of the leaves within the trees. It's firm and comforting like heartbeats of people standing close together. It is not fierce nor angry; instead it is telling a story of how it balances the heat from this island of fire. It cools the air as it falls.
I've also experienced a rain that was anxious; the wind usually does not pressure the globules sideways, but there was a threat of this. It happened during hurricane season; it was a remnant that remained from an angry storm that had spared the island by breaking up as it hit our windward shores. It arrived, a persistant traveler, tired after it had crossed over the mountains to reach our side as if it is searching for healing and forgiveness at a pu'uhonua.
A couple of times we heard the cousins to rain dancing upstairs too loudly, rumbling and tumbling around. Thunder does not visit often, but during the hurricane season, it stopped here for a holiday. Lightning was present, too, but distant and not brash or shocking. With these came a steady rain of feet running across a wooden floor. It was almost annoying but then it stopped, reminding me that it is temporary, here only for a short visit, so let it have some fun.
Once we had a moody rain. It was very sad; it was the day it had been overcast since morning. The clouds were shades of gray and were bubbling up like a cry in a baby's belly that finally yelled out in discontent in the tired hours of pau hana (after work). The clouds opened their mouths and from the heaven's eyes came large, hard drops demanding attention. The drops beat down hard on my shoulders and I was uncomfortably wet as I ventured to shelter. The dogs didn't want to go outside and they laid in curls next to me on the couch as they waited for it to pass. By evening the temper tantrum was over, not as bad as it had threatened to be, but there was an eerie quiet like parents who tip toe so as not to wake up the sleeping baby.
The other day we had a mist. It tickled and was not quite cool, but it didn't need to be as the day was already a mild 82 degrees. It just let us know that it was present and wanted to be little more than a wallflower at the party that day.
On Hilo side (windward and tropically wet), I have experienced the release of the cloud's full belly of rain, trying to control itself but pushing the weight of the air down onto me to help hold it up. The cloud's release brings quick relief, however, and soon the air is cooler and lighter. It's the quintessential "afternoon" rain that people talk about in the tropics. On Kona side, though, rain is more subtle no matter what type it is.
I know there were different types of rain in Chicago, but I cannot remember any of them truly being refreshing. Some would take the webbed, suffocating cotton of humidity from the air for a short time, but usually it returned too quickly. I've certainly experienced the slicing freezing rain that nips at ears and cheeks while I wondered how it could be so cold and not be snowing. There was a lot of angry rain, almost abusive in its ability to cut me at the knees as I tried to run from the cracks of lightning bursting from the sky all around me. Very seldom did the rain welcome me to visit, implore me to enjoy its presence. Instead it would drive me indoors, straight into my bed where I would keep cover for as long as it took for it to end.
However, here in Hawaii, I experience all things as a gift. The rain has been one gift I've enjoyed each time it is offered here. There has been damaging rain in other parts of this island since we've been here and on other islands as well. But somehow we have found a nook on the side of a mountain that protects us like my mother covering me with her raincoat. And so, this is another gift we have: of shelter from our connections with each other and the earth.
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