Vedriti: The Slovenian Word for Taking Shelter From the Rain
The stories of rainy-day children, Miyazaki, Salinger, abundance, warmth, and protection, and the inevitable return to childhood
When it comes to heavy rain and finding shelter from it, the famous scene from Hayao Miyazaki's film My Neighbor Totoro comes to mind. Miyazaki, without a doubt, is the master of all creatives.
My Neighbor Totoro has many memorable images, but the scene of the little, worried girl waiting for her father at the bus stop under heavy rain with the giant Totoro is one of the most touching images in the world. It's like a summary of life, sobering, chilling but somehow hopeful.
A little girl stands next to a massive Totoro holding an umbrella, terrified that something bad will happen to her mother and father. Fear, hope, kindness, friendship, the unknown, and love are all present. I don't know how many times I've seen My Neighbor Totoro, but I can watch it hundreds of times as if it were the first time. I believe the rain, sun, and other natural effects in the film contribute to the film's impressive atmosphere.
Rain is mostly sincere and genuine. Kissing your lover in the rain is a delightful moment to nudgingly remind you why you're alive. An evening when your lover, drenched in rain, knocks on your door in the evening and then immerses himself in the warmth of your home, accompanied by a good meal, a cup of hot tea, and a kiss, is priceless. Or curling up with a good book in front of a big window while it's raining outside, with a blanket and a hot chocolate in hand.
All of this is possible with rain, but also with the ability to find shelter from the rain. The Slovenian language has a nice word for it: sheltering from the rain, Vedriti.
Rain is also a metaphor expressing intensity. In fact, we are attempting to explain that something is more than we can bear by using phrases like "a rain of problems." We mean that the problems are overwhelming, intense, and attacking. And, while we enjoy rain, we eventually want to be shielded from its ferocity. A shelter is required. Having a shelter beside the rain actually brings us comfort. As a result, the word vedriti encompasses both rain and shelter. Humans' sense of avoidance and self-preservation in the face of one of nature's most powerful events.
When I think of rain, my childhood inevitably comes to mind. When it rains, I remember my crazy laughter, especially when I jumped in puddles and got muddy without thinking about the reprimand I would get from my mother. Or the conversations we had while waiting for the rain to stop by the houses' walls and roofs. And, of course, there was the inevitable going home and staring out the window.
Rain is a different experience as a child than it is as an adult. However, it would be meaningful to conclude such an essay about rain with a passage from a novel about a person, or a generation, who is caught between childhood and adulthood and is seeking acceptance from at least one of them. Let us lend our ears to Holden from The Catcher in the Rye, by J. D. Salinger.
Boy, it began to rain like a bastard. In buckets, I swear to God. All the parents and mothers and everybody went over and stood right under the roof of the carrousel, so they wouldn’t get soaked to the skin or anything, but I stuck around on the bench for quite a while. I got pretty soaking wet, especially my neck and my pants. My hunting hat really gave me quite a lot of protection, in a way; but I got soaked anyway. I didn’t care, though. I felt so damn happy all of a sudden, the way old Phoebe kept going around and around. I was damn near bawling, I felt so damn happy, if you want to know the truth. I don’t know why. It was just that she looked so damn nice, the way she kept going around and around, in her blue coat and all. God, I wish you could’ve been there.
I love the last sentence: “God, I wish you could’ve been there.”
Rain is such a natural event that twirls human behaviors, sometimes joyful and rushing, but always miraculous, that we want to feel God be present and accompany our witnessing.
It’s raining in Istanbul, and I’m at home, writing. The woman that I am today is not like Gulsun, the child who was running in the streets, wet and reckless. But the woman I am has been carrying the dreams and stories of all the children and also adults who refuse to let their inner children fade away—the stories of rainy-day children.
Moreover, she is ready and willing to write them. This, I believe, is no small matter.