creative / nature

storms

Those muggy summer nights
I curled up on the carpet
next to the air intake at the center of the house,
trembling.
It was there that the thunder’s rumble
couldn’t reach me.

I knew better than to be afraid.
I was old enough — old enough
to remember the shame of my fear,
how it wasn’t likely that lighting would strike our house —
not likely…
but possible.

So I cowered there in the hallway,
turning in and in and in
until there was no more to reach into.
Out there was the storm.
Out there the danger.
At least that is what it seemed.

Because a storm is more of a feeling
than anything else.

But tents do not have a carpeted hallway or air intake,
so there was nowhere to go
when the midnight thunder rolled down the canyon
and echoed off the water of the river.
I couldn’t not see the lightening
that lit up my tent like daytime.

There was nowhere to go,
so I stayed.
And what I had fought to not see, I saw;
what I had fought to not feel, I felt.
Because a storm is more of a feeling
than anything else.

And there,
where I could not turn inward any longer —
I broke.
And for the first time,
the wild display of power replaced the fear —
with awe.

And it has never left.
Because the storms are real
and they are bigger than me and my safe hallway,
but they are a gift.
Hiding in the hallway,
I did not know what was missing.

Because a storm is more of a feeling
than anything else.

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