I don’t think the wind and rain this morning really constitutes a storm, per se, but there is a ruggedness to the weather that makes me reminisce about a younger me who would relish dashing outside, however briefly, to experience a summer storm. Not so much now. I am wrapped in a thick sweater, sipping hot coffee, and tempted to slip back under the covers where a sleepy Steve still resides. I’ll wake him in a bit because he has a calvacade of people coming through today, friends, family, tai chi teachers and so on. Meanwhile I share a poem I wrote, way back when, all the way back in 2010, about the storms of my youth in Virginia.
Summer Storms
The food I’ve purchased and brought North with me.
But the weather I could not carry in a cardboard box.
So when people ask what I miss, that is what I tell them,
I miss most the southern summer storm.
You know the ones,
the ones with rolling thunder trailing white lightening in their wake.
Sheets of rain falling like milk from the sky.
Such deafening noise and blinding light.
Children trembling as we peered past drawn curtains.
Unending it seemed but then poof!
Like magic it would stop, leaving silence in the air.
Darkness would part for the sun. Birds sang.
All that remained of the storm would be puddles
and leaves strewn across the front porch.
We’d step outside into a golden light.
God had scrubbed the world clean.
Just for us, you know, so that we could play.
And play we did until the sun set
and the lightening bugs came out and danced with the stars.
We would sit in the damp
winding down from another day well done.
That is why I miss the summer storm.
We used squid as the tasty lure. Once the hook had been baited, Steve taught me how to cast (last time the fellow did it for me). As I stood at the rail holding the rod, I was aware of the looks we received from the neighboring fishermen. As you can see I am still not quite up to speed on fishing attire. A few people came over to chitchat. I let Steve do all the talking. I stared out into the sea.
I watched the rippling of the water and the gentle rise and fall of the waves. In the ephemeral light of the cloudy day, every shade of blue appeared on the water’s surface. For just a moment. No fish did I see but I kept imagining them down in the dark depths, nibbling on my squid. Birds flew overhead. Sailboats drifted by. In the end, I caught nothing except of course that calm. Unexpected but welcome. A treat. As Steve and I walked back to the car, and he outlined our strategy for next time so that we’d actually catch something, I realized I didn’t need to a catch a fish. It was the journey that mattered to me, not the destination. When I shared that revelation with Steve, he was quiet for a moment, then said, “I respect your feelings. But let’s test that theory once you actually have a fish on the line.”
Words + Images 