The rain is all I hear. Wet is all I feel, even in the comforts of a box, a box overlooking the water. A body of water that makes me wonder where all of those ships come from.

They come with cars. They come with clothes. They come with spices, spices to ramp up the cosmopolitan of it all.

You need spices to feel cosmopolitan, you see. To be connected to the rest of the world. The connection of taste, millions, maybe billions, knowing what transformations saffron can morph into, and the seductive nutrients it provides to our other senses. No words can describe the seduction they say.

But amidst all the distractions, algorithms, trends, needs, wants, and the rhythms that life bestows upon us comes a wonder. This wonder delves into the hopes and dreams of what tomorrow could bring.

A tomorrow without all the expectations to feel everything we can purchase, exploit, feed fantasies, and get utterly lost and obsessed with. How do you not try to keep up? How do you not try to keep up in a city that is wet, moist, drenched, rainforested, and soaked in a joyful sadness?

You have to get lost when the rain brings the gloom. When it showers, it sprinkles urban dwellers with the angst of living in the rhythm of clinging to past nostalgias and future hopes, acquisitions, and legacy.

Throw it all away, the spirits will say. Throw it all away! Don’t forget to take walks in the rain. Stop getting wet and feel, truly feel what’s in the rain, the moments in the paths.

Find paths, even though they are littered with the wastefulness of the things we build. Alleyways, urban pathways through the structures of pageantry, the parks that remind us of respite, or how every suburban street looks the same.

In the sameness of it all, I will slowly head to the borders. The borders close to the water, to the only thing that is ancient in this city by the sea. It’s a city by the sea, why do we need a wall, a seawall, they say.

Yes, the ancient bodies of water are unpredictable now. But still, they carry stories of the past, and they always lead me to The Rock! Yes, The Rock. The Rock that lets my imagination run wild with our past before the urban of it all took root.

Yes! I bypass all the tourists, the health nuts, the newcomers, and young hearts who are naive to the engulfment of urban rhythm, the chore of being cool, and the constant explaining of everything you do to strangers, friends, and family.

It will add up; it eventually adds up. It does for me. So I walk towards the Rock feeling aimless. The only time the city allows me to do so. I’m allowed to let go. Some days the walk requires zig-zagging through summer tourists, but in the winter, oh, the sweet winter. It’s a straight shot to the structure carved by the elements and time.

I’ve read of many legends of the Rock. They involve Xays, a spirit being known as the Transformer by many indigenous people of the Pacific Northwest Coast, a man transformed into the Rock for unselfish deeds, poems, and fishing equipment.

Every time I take this walk, I imagine this transformation. How selfless does one have to be to be given the gift to stand still? To watch as time goes by, acquiring the deep knowledge that change comes with peace, turmoil, beginnings, endings, tragedy, and triumph.

My mind has imagined him transformed in an instant. But on winter walks, my imagination will take its time, watching him slowly morph, his feet slowly rooting to the bottom of the seabed, anchored to its depths, and as the years go by, he feels the hardening of his former self, chiseled by nature’s artists.

To be a rock, you have to be unbothered by all that comes and goes. To be a rock, you know how to truly feel the rain. You know it will change you, and you will accept. You accept because you’ve let it all go.

You let the wind carve you, the sun grow life on you, earth drops and forms on your surface, your skin, your stance, shaping you to the motions of what is needed. You just are, you don’t fuss about, creating shade in the light and silhouettes in the dark.

A city transforms you, but not into a rock. You very likely turn into a machine. Your rhythm is repetitive, your mind loses space, your body numbs, and your emotions are unable to take in the little things that bring the worst of the good and the best of the bad. A range of feelings, not felt.

Rocks, however, have all the time in the world. They take their sweet time. They know that time is a treasure, and it’s best if you don’t chase it. You just allow it to do what it does. When you don’t give friction and just be, it carves you into what you need to be.

You get to watch the mountains, feel the ecstasy of water flowing around you, massaging you into ease, while you hear the birds sing, blocking out the chatter of mindless people. You’re stoic, grounded to the core, who gives all life.

I might not be able to be a rock. Maybe I am not unselfish enough. I may never be unselfish enough. But for now, I can take a walk through three beaches, through dry heat, rain, and the occasional snow, just to be close to the feeling of just being, standing still, and letting all go right by.

Slhx̱í7lsh is a rock outcropping in Vancouver that was formed about 32 million years ago. Many indigenous legends are associated with this rock, and today, it is a popular tourist attraction in Vancouver’s Stanley Park.

Vancouver gets 146 cm of rain a year, and on average, the city has 161 rainy days.