At seven years of age, I recall standing on my back porch, looking out into the darkness of still overcast. A few droplets of the coolest water also softly nestled my tongue as it protruded from my mouth. I was an interesting kid. The thunder began to roar, upsetting the bushel of birds that nested in the crevices of my home's roof. They seemed to understand this better than I could. Then, it happened. Those droplets became more frequent and consistent, a rush similarly felt by onlookers who watch marathon races proceed through a certain area. I was intrigued. Fearful. Respectful. Amazed. Winds started to blow the trees in a wayward fashion while their leaves submitted under the pressure.
I can remember looking up in the sky and asking God, if he would honor my wish one day, to please give me control over the weather. Strange, yes? But in that child's mind, I understood that power rested in the quiet force that, if necessary, could change into a massive, untamed monster - but those times were seldom. I have felt a crazy connection with the rain ever since.
Now, as an adult, on days like this, my body starts to respond to the sultry psalm of peace and quietude sung by the rain and winds. I can't control it. I want to crawl up under my sheets and just listen to the sweet music created by this gentle goddess. So, that's exactly what I am going to do.
Good night. I have to honor the child inside.
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