I sit here alone. The undulating blackness sweeping across the sky before me like angry waves on a celestial shore. I've watched the neighbors dash for their doors, listened to slamming windows and calls for expedition, and all the while, sat still....my flesh tingling with anticipation. My breathing quickens, keeping time with my heart as the wind strokes my cheek and tugs at my hair.
With the first clap of thunder, I smile.
The boys have left for a week with grandparents, my husband working late....I relish this, this dark solitude. Hours before a natural dusk, the sky has dimmed, as if the day feared the slash of lightening's umbrage. The ink, as I write, is lit by glaring flashes of white, neatness lost in the uncontrollable glee that races through my veins.
I often wonder at the differences in the soul of the storm lovers and others. As I sit here I know there are windows open all over my house, but I mind not the damp sills and puddled hardwood I will find when I retire. Really, what harm comes from such? Yet so many at this very moment are walling off Mother Nature behind glass and wood and shade--I cannot imagine this. I delight in every aspect of the coming tempest--the mist that even now slicks my skin, the rumble of clashing masses, the pounding of aqueous fists upon the grass. It's all I can do to stay here, the porch lights swaying in the gale, and not run laughing through the deluge.
Sometimes I think there are those of us born with turmoil in our blood and thus are kin to nature's wrath. It's not something chosen and perhaps not inherited--neither of my sisters share this love of mine, yet I have vivid memories as a child, lying in the grass of a sunken meadow in the mountains, mesmerized by the lightening slashing into the rocky peaks surrounding me. So close, the electricity danced across my arms like ethereal spiders.
Turbulence and I have shared quarters, lived years together. Argued over silverware. From jungles of twisted vines to ones of broken concrete and rust, my life has traversed more than expected. Yet to ride the swell and crash of a life unquiet leaves one looking for rafts as often as glorying in the surging crest. I have spent years learning to cloak the battles that rage within me; decisions that others find simple, I dissect. Sleep ever evades me, leaving hours to fill. My beliefs and values clamour to be heard over the din of commercialized pandemonium and noise that engulf. Examination of the soul and choices made can be a bloody thing...enlightening, but tainted by that unmistakable ferrous tang.
Perhaps it is comfort I find, in the midst of heaven's assault. There is no other moment when the world seems quite as volatile, quite as out of control--anyone's control--as in the depths of a raging storm. However, with every breath drawn, we know this will pass. Every blizzard ends, every tornado calms. The devastation may be grave....but the sun will rise. Perhaps this is why I feel my internal hurricane slip away on the coils of humid air tonight.
My mind stills, soothed by the irrefutable evidence of endurance.