Let it rain

It stormed last night and, as always, it brought excitement with it.

There is a standing tradition in my house that, when it rains, people go outside. Now, I'm not talking about sitting on the porch like sane people (why would we, any of us, be sane?), no, my siblings and I go where the wind batters us and we can feel the water sliding past our feet.

Sometimes, we put on felt fedoras and trenchcoats, we walk and talk like we think it's the '40s and Chandler wrote us. Other times, we race outside at the first crash of thunder, not bothering with silly things such as coats or shoes. We run and howl with the wind, finding within the storm a kindred spirit... Actually I think it's just me that does that last—the bare feet thing, I mean.

I don't know what it is about storms, but I love them, I love being in them. Perhaps it's their wild, rampant energy. Perhaps they make me feel more alive... I don't really know, and maybe if I did I wouldn't be drawn to them so much (unlikely).

There's just something about being in the wet, where I can feel the thunder—when I'm there, I don't feel fear. Storms, it seems, are made for me, and I thank God for every one. Lightning might strike me one day, but the thought doesn't bother me. It hasn't turned on me yet. 

What about you, unidentified reader, how do you feel about storms? Do you think about them as blessings, or do you see them as inconveniences? Are they things to marvel at from safety, or things to experience firsthand, close up, from within?

Go mbeannaí Dia duit,
M.S.