I woke early this morning. I always do, but this morning was even earlier than usual. I started the computer, fixed my granola yogurt, and checked my email. I even IMed with a dear friend.
She warned me a storm was coming.
I opened my blinds. I wanted to see what was brewing. A powerful storm cell was moving toward my house. I could hear and smell the rain. The slate gray sky was heavy and low.
I left off all the lamps. Only the strange, pale light of the storm lit my den. I observed the arrival through the spattered windowpanes.
I listened to the stillness—only the clicking of my computer keyboard and the hum of the air conditioner broke the hushed silence of the early morning. They intruded.
With expectation and eagerness I waited for the fullness of the storm to arrive.
There, the lightning—a jagged bolt. So quick I almost missed it. The eye was still far away; the thunder did not ride closely on its heels.
At last I heard the first low rumbles of thunder. Rain bounced on the street.
Another flash—fierce and immediate. This time thunder was just a mere breath behind. I couldn't even say one thousand and one between the flash and the punch.
Suddenly, I wanted to go to the porch. I didn’t just want to watch the storm go by.
The cool wind hit me as soon as I stepped out my front door. I stopped just under the eaves.
My inhibitions and my passion battled.
Perched like a small bird on a branch, I clung to the edge of the porch boards with my bare toes. The wind blew the rain in, and I fluttered and shivered.
Tentatively I stretched my arm past the overhang of the roof. The rain hit my hand and ran in cold rivulets down the length of my bare arm.
The inner dialogue continued.
Just step out, Tamera.
Step off the porch and into the rain.
Lightning was tight and frequent now. Thunder rolled across the sky like ripples in a rug being smoothed on the floor.
I kept watching the street. No traffic. The doors of all the neighboring houses were shut tight. Blinds were closed.
The storm was passing by—my chances would soon begin to wane. No more thinking, no more debating, no more hesitating.
At the height of the storm—I pushed off the edge of the porch and flew into the storm.
I stood in the rain on the sidewalk with my face upturned. I drank in the cold, hard rain. It ran down my face and neck soaking my red shirt. I stepped in the puddles on the sidewalk and laughed. I lifted my arms toward the dark, slate gray sky. Then I twirled around and around at the edge of the street, so very glad to be me.
I had flown into the middle of the storm.
And while I was there I danced.
Exhilaration. Elation. Emancipation.