layers upon layer upon layers. truths resting on lies, resting on truths. one, two, three parts of a whole - like those little russian dolls. is each a part of one person, or are they three individual schizophrenic people inside one person? voices crowd the brain until one is no longer sure of oneself, but absolute silence is also a deadly impediment to progress - are we truly ourselves with those outside voices telling us who we are and what we should be, or are we truly ourselves in the silence, where our own lonely voice holds singular, oft-mistaken court? i'm not sure. but above all, there are simple truths which remain the same, constant over the years. like a love of reading. like a sense of identity. like a summer rainstorm.
i'm struggling to define myself again. i'm something like those layers of soil which indicate different periods of time the lower you go, an archaeologist's dream. but last night, i rode my bike in a summer downpour, and realized that experiences recur, and their recurrence is the same, yet different everytime. so life is a series of memories and experiences, many of which intersect with similar ones from a time before. the reason we don't recognize the repeat is that we've grown into different people, and each time, the experience is new, with a hint of deja vu.

when i was young and an only child, my mother used to take me to the swimming pool or the library in the summertime. afternoons would find us waiting for my father to come home from work, sitting on a grassy patch of green at the edge of the road, munching on doritos and soda. what infallible instinct led my mother to take her 7/8/9/10-year old daughter the library on rainy days, when she herself had always been an outdoorsy child?

the rain had timing. a few drops would start splattering the pavement in front of the library by the time we left, my thin arms carrying at least 7 or 8 books. we'd run to the car, and the ominous clouds which had been gathering all day would finally pour forth a deluge of torrential rain that would last anywhere from 5 minutes to 3 hours. clinging to my books in the front seat of the minivan, i would watch the clouds follow us home, and pretend that we could outrun them with the speed of our car. my mother, serene at the steering wheel, was the hero who saved us from the rain and the clouds.

as the dreamy teenager i grew up to be, head full of legends and myths from greek and celtic mythology, an active imagination fueled by years of reading mysteries and horror stories, the rains were welcome. i would stand barefoot beneath the lip over our front door, right next to the plant of jasmine flowers, and watch the sky sizzle with lightning. the breeze would waft the scent of hot rain and jasmine, making the two mingle, creating a link in my mind forever between jasmine flowers and summer rainstorms. my feet would be warm on the sidewalk, while pockets of steam rose from the spots in the parking lot where the rain hit hot pavement.

i have no memories of rainstorms in the summer during my two years at rutgers. perhaps that should tell me something about the selectiveness of forgetting. or about the connection between rain and happiness in my life.

during my only summer in heidelberg, in 2004, a friend and i were summoned to the courtyard behind the neue uni by friends who were waiting - it was the historiker sommerfest, and it was outside. trouble was, my friend i were stuck in the dining hall when the rainstorm began, and between us, had one umbrella (mine) and an inconvenient skirt-and-heels combination (hers). holding the umbrella above us both, we ran across the cobblestones, laughing, and when i said "screw it," and handed the umbrella to my friend to run across the courtyard bare-headed, she yelled that i was crazy and chased after me in the rain. we arrived in the courtyard, me soaking wet, and entered the small tents set up for the fest to the sound of our friends applauding.

there was the night towards the end of summer, when 5 of us sat on the terrace of that amazing apartment my Best Friend and i had just moved into, under the lip of an overhang, in our improvised pajamas. we ate pakoras with yogurt, watched the glittering city below, with the darkness inside the apartment at our backs, and let the rain fall before us in soft pitter-patters of sound, happy in the silence.

i remember those two nights better than entire years.

last night, the bike ride was an escape. it was raining, and the tires were slipping. the heat in nj is oppressive because of the thick humidity - it stifles you, drives you mad. i am not an expert bike rider - my youth was spent at the pool or the library, and my one experience with bike riding led to my little knees becoming so skinned after a fall on black tar pavement, that i never went back to my pink huffy bicycle again. but i suppose once you learn it, you never forget it (though stopping is still a problem). it rained heavy against my face, but the droplets were cooling, and i let the bike slide easily down slopes on our road. my hair curls oddly in the rain, as it did around my face, where it clung. and in that rain, i realized lots of things - that i am what i make of myself, and i never had need for strict definition. the rebellious, open-minded questioner of all things set in stone is still there, as well as the spiritual, faithful memorist, who knows certain truths will always be the backbone of her life. i realized also that although i may not be as happy as i was three years ago, right now, i am content...and that's enough for me.