I'm sitting here, in my quiet little cozy corner of the house. (Cozy being a euphemism for hot and small, but whatever. Glass half full, and all that.)
As I write this, the RainPocalypse has descended upon my neighborhood. Thunder roars as it beckons the rain to slash mightily through the tree lines and across windshields...and here I sit. Safe. Warm. Excited.
I love storms. Always have. There's a cleansing quality about them that can't be replicated by any shower you can ever take. Perhaps it's the unpredictability or lack of control, but storms, they are magical. As the RainPocalypse continues, I can't help but think about what storms meant to me when I was younger.
They were nights snuggled on the couch with my parents, who rarely even spoke to each other, let alone snuggle on a couch. They were candle-lit walks to the kitchen for snacks because our power always (ALWAYS) went out during a thunderstorm. They were boardgames played by lantern light because OH MY GOD, the Nintendo was out.
It was thrilling and bonding, at the same time. It was extraordinary to see the lightning spider like broken glass above the lake.
It was during a storm that I found my first true love. We sat on a dock in the rain for hours and talked of everything and nothing. We've since lost touch, but I will forever have the memory of that storm tattooed on my heart.
So, as this storm rolls over our house, I'm taken back to nights where life was simpler, safety was a given, and love was earnest and true.
It's amazing how a little water, noise and electricity can do that.