loracs | Approaching Storm

It rained the night before last. I sat outside in the backyard. My head, in contact with the umbrella, experienced a steady tapping pressure; the sensation pushed though my body reaching my toes. The earthen smells, as deep and rich as a sniff of real vanilla or leavened bread baking, wrapped around me. Sometimes I closed my eyes; sharing full focus with the other senses.

Eyes opened; the concert of movement filled me up. Drops hit the concrete, the mud, the redwood planter, a plastic table, the large leaves of the fig tree; each contact required its own choreography. A catch and release predetermined by gravity, weight, speed, wind. It could all be translated into numbers; symbols explaining the why and how of it, and in the math there would be beauty, but not a type I can fully appreciate. I need the physical, the reality of wet and cold, the silence between the drops, a comfortable, familiar place to hang my id, ego and super ego. A place all three agree is good.

I watched the weather forecast this morning, another storm is coming in. The predicted amount, temperature, wind speed and duration were mapped and graphed. I translated that information into anticipated sights, smells, tastes, textures, sounds. While a sad imitation of what is to come, it still made me happy. The sky is grey now, the wind is picking up. I have my coat and umbrella by the back door ready for my exit. Once again I will be audience and performer, observer and participant, in the dance of water and wind.

What are ya’ll doing tonight?