You don’t know weather until you’ve been to Texas.
It is 4:22 PM and deafening roars shake the skies, trailed by slightly less intimidating flashes of light. Minutes ago, I was asleep, only to be woken by what I call a freak electrical storm. The sky is white and reminds me of water with residual milk left in the glass; gray clouds swirl surreptitiously over a neighbor’s roof. I don’t know why I am outside, except for a love of rain and the lapse in judgment that often results from an interrupted nap. I wait for the ground to wet.
The thunder rumbles slowly, reminiscent of marching troops. I lean against the white column on our front porch, inhaling bits of paint and grass. Storms have always been soothing to me, and I nearly sink into a dreamlike state when the cries of an angry tiger rip through the sky. I jerk, suddenly awake, and stare immobile at the clouds, hands hovering at my sides. My head tries to drag me back into the house, straining for statistics it does not know. You’re dangerous, I hear, and stupid. Shrugging mentally, I fold my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them. Telltale drops begin to splatter the concrete.
The rain comes in stages, starting at a sprinkle and growing to a steady pour. The way it changes is marvelous: increasing a little at a time, so subtly that you don’t notice the evolution until it’s happened. Trees begin to shake- or, maybe it’s just me- and I widen my eyes, afraid to watch, but even more afraid to miss what comes next. I could be indoors, safe behind a window, but that would put me on the wrong side of the glass. I want to feel this. A thousand photographs could not convey the tremor in my chest, or the stillness of the air as thunder rolls from a distance. The musk of rain would be lost on me if I were not here by the dirt; walls in our house would muffle the sound of this deadly, organic orchestra. I sit, motionless, and listen.
The torrents fall steadily now, percussion to deep bass and lights. Something inside me seems to relax, as though my soul has stilled. Tranquility blankets the storm, silently acknowledging those who watched the sky stretch, rage, and finally settle. My heart is satisfied, and though my head tells me to grow up, I know that I will sit with the next storm, and the one after that. I’m not done with the thunder, nor am I finished with lightning. Stability looms nearer every day, and logic threatens to cut short my encounters, but I will not stop yet. There’s still much to hear and room to stretch, and when the sky roars again, I will roar with it.
It is 4:22 PM and deafening roars shake the skies, trailed by slightly less intimidating flashes of light. Minutes ago, I was asleep, only to be woken by what I call a freak electrical storm. The sky is white and reminds me of water with residual milk left in the glass; gray clouds swirl surreptitiously over a neighbor’s roof. I don’t know why I am outside, except for a love of rain and the lapse in judgment that often results from an interrupted nap. I wait for the ground to wet.
The thunder rumbles slowly, reminiscent of marching troops. I lean against the white column on our front porch, inhaling bits of paint and grass. Storms have always been soothing to me, and I nearly sink into a dreamlike state when the cries of an angry tiger rip through the sky. I jerk, suddenly awake, and stare immobile at the clouds, hands hovering at my sides. My head tries to drag me back into the house, straining for statistics it does not know. You’re dangerous, I hear, and stupid. Shrugging mentally, I fold my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them. Telltale drops begin to splatter the concrete.
The rain comes in stages, starting at a sprinkle and growing to a steady pour. The way it changes is marvelous: increasing a little at a time, so subtly that you don’t notice the evolution until it’s happened. Trees begin to shake- or, maybe it’s just me- and I widen my eyes, afraid to watch, but even more afraid to miss what comes next. I could be indoors, safe behind a window, but that would put me on the wrong side of the glass. I want to feel this. A thousand photographs could not convey the tremor in my chest, or the stillness of the air as thunder rolls from a distance. The musk of rain would be lost on me if I were not here by the dirt; walls in our house would muffle the sound of this deadly, organic orchestra. I sit, motionless, and listen.
The torrents fall steadily now, percussion to deep bass and lights. Something inside me seems to relax, as though my soul has stilled. Tranquility blankets the storm, silently acknowledging those who watched the sky stretch, rage, and finally settle. My heart is satisfied, and though my head tells me to grow up, I know that I will sit with the next storm, and the one after that. I’m not done with the thunder, nor am I finished with lightning. Stability looms nearer every day, and logic threatens to cut short my encounters, but I will not stop yet. There’s still much to hear and room to stretch, and when the sky roars again, I will roar with it.
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