It’s late fall and dark arrives early these days. By the time I leave the office at 5 or 5:30, the sun has gone down. It is the season of darkness and rain. After work one day, Adah and I took an evening walk, the sun setting as we headed north. The sky filled with clouds and darkened menacingly: charcoal gray with patches of deep red where the sun had set. Flashes of lightning silhouetted the trees ahead of us. We heard the dull roar of distant thunder. It began to rain, lightly at first in chilly little droplets, but increasing in strength. We glanced at each other, then persevered. We were without a purpose, yet we kept walking.

By the time we reached the North Field of Oberlin’s campus it was pouring and too dark to see without artificial light. The thunder was nearer, too, frightening in its volume, duration, and proximity. Still we walked, thirsty for some small adventure, leaving the semi-lit field for an unlit tree-lined walkway, barely visible in the gloom.

It seems unusual to me to continue walking in such conditions. In my daily life, I gravitate toward comfort and safety. Less than some, perhaps–I enjoy camping, skinny dipping, playing in the snow, climbing trees and rocks, &c. But in general it is obvious to me which way my scale tips: toward the comfort and safety of my home. But not on this day.

I’ll admit, that even as we decided to walk, there was a small uncomfortable voice in my head protesting, telling me not to get wet, that my clothes would be soaked for days, my shoes would be muddy, the phone in my pocket short-circuited, the papers in my bag moistened to pulp, and so on and so forth.

This voice is influencing me at all times. It is always present. One of the great gifts that psychoactive substances (not present on this walk) have given me is an awareness of how obsessed I am with this sort of control. During one particular experience, I remember how this voice–usually in the periphery of my consciousness–became the loudest thing in my mind. I remember, just walking to the other room, how obsessed this voice was with getting it right, with making each motion correctly, directing the minutiae of every step so as to appear normal and arrive efficiently at my destination.

My awareness of this voice carried over into my sober life, and on that day walking through the rain, I was keenly aware of its demands–and I ignored them. It wasn’t until I was saturated from head to toe, that I was able to let go completely–to silence that voice. I was soaked and it didn’t matter. Suddenly no part of me cared that my clothes would be soaked, that my papers would be wet, that I would be cold. It was cathartic to feel so free in that instant. I was wet as the world around me. The boundary between my body and the outside world wavered. For a brief moment, with the rain coming down in sheets around us, I felt like I was swimming in the air, like I could do anything I wanted and the consequences didn’t matter.

We looped around the field to the street, walking alongside the cars until we reached my warm, dry, and comfortable home, where dinner was awaiting us.