I love the sound of rain spattering against my window in the middle of the night as the winds come up and then die away again as the storm moves on.
I loved the night when gale-force winds bent our old, tall poplar tree nearly to the ground as my husband and I (and the dogs) sat in the garden shed, plywood board across the open door acting as a splash board to protect us from the muddy rainwater raining on us from below. I loved the poplar, branches bending, flashing in and out of view as the lightning strikes revealed them to us.
I loved coming out from work at midnight to find a massive rainstorm…and standing beneath the column of water pouring through the pipes from the high rooftops of the commercial buildings all around me. The alley and streets nearly empty and myself screened by falling water.
I love swimming in lake, river or creek in the nighttime, on a whim, all alone. The sounds of the loons calling across the lake, the frogs singing on river banks or in the nearby slough.
I love the sound of water pouring over the small dam across the river, where, when the river’s running shallow, one can sit in a crevice hidden by the falling water and watch the lights from up above and across the fields. It seems as though one could breathe water, the mist from the splashing fall rising up again.
I love looking out of the airplane, visioning not cold and fragile, but soft, supportive clouds, and wishing to open the door and walk outside, the cumulus become a gigantic, billowing trampoline just for me.
I love standing along the road as evening turns to night, the sky high overcast, watching tall storm cells march across the fields and hilltops many miles away. The cloud-to-cloud lightning illuminates the cell in slices, and the clouds become grey backdrops for the dance of lightning bolts, the music too far away to be heard.
I am a life-long writer/journaler. I write to objectivize the world outside of me; that is, the reality that is independent of my mind, which I intuit through the senses. I write to know and understand what I truly see and to determine what I feel about that reality, its physical shape, its human and other inhabitants, and the interactions among the not-living world, the combination of forces and elements, and the cause and effect of both that and the living things that depend upon God and the seemingly not-aware stage within which they live out countless generations in peace, avoidance, violence, altruism and self-destruction as species.
I write. I objectivize. I freak out a lot. And then I turn inwards and write some more. “I am not responsible in total or part for the path the future takes,” I write; “I am responsible for recognizing truth and doing what is right.”
Self-aware individuals have a great capacity for rationalization. They seek personal survival, personal gain. Few recognize the necessity for an all-encompassing altruism in order that somethings—someones—should survive to witness the end of all things. The Universe should not die alone.