Storms

When the wind started gaining momentum and crashed like a wave over the surf of trees, inspiration rushed through her veins. A light rumble in the distance. The smell of water lilies in the breeze. Rain pattered the roof, mimicking the rhythm of the electricity surging through her brain. She adored a good gloomy morning. Moody skies were arguably the most vibrant to be witnessed. Storms restored her, closing in like sanctuaries of inspiration. Creativity personified was lightning striking the wind-thrown, rain-rippled ocean.

She raced outside to be a part of the storm. Between dark, threatening clouds, the sun peeked through dew drops dangling from the pear tree branches overhead, shining a delicious prism of flavors through the tiny watery orbs; Pomegranate, tangerine, mango, key lime pie, blueberry cobbler, blackberry jam, raspberry tart. She rushed back inside once her hair and skin were soaked with the rain's delicious desserts. She spent the most vicious hours of the storm steeped in rain while focusing on creative projects. How she loved reading and writing and musing to a score of thunder. The steady rain of words was the purest euphoria. Storms brought her closer to the line between reality and fiction, the line where dreams could be captured and kept, the line where characters could be heard from an echoing distance. The thunder only made their calls clearer, as if careening their ship closer to her. From the shore, she could see their silhouettes, their clothes, their smiles, she could hear their cackles traveling through the colliding, crashing tides. When it didn’t storm or rain, what was left behind was often a thick, quiet fog. She lost them to still waters, and there they remained at the center of the sea, doomed to be forgotten, left to the open ocean when inspiration failed to conjure the winds needed to sail to shore.

For many, storms and rain brought nothing but inconvenience; they flooded all of the joy from that day. But for her, storms brought a celebration, a weekly holiday, or multi-weekly, if she could be so lucky, an entire day devoted to creativity and transcendence. She loved venturing out after writing through a storm to gather visions for future inspiration; everyone and everything looked more stunning in the rain. People were humbled and their auras glittered like the raindrops collecting as chandeliers along the tips of their eyelashes.

One year on her birthday, it rained while she was in Holland celebrating. The smell of drenched autumn alone was like a gift from Goddesses and Gods.

She was in Amsterdam turning 30, visiting their most popular farmer’s market, which seemed to stretch for miles. She sampled soft, fresh pulled mozzarella and spiced minced lamb, the scents of curry and cinnamon tingled her nose and danced through the breeze. Everything was simply better in the rain. Everything smelled and tasted more delicious in the rain. She tasted her first Stroopwafel on that stormy 30th birthday. The caramel warmed her tongue and melted like bliss as the rain kissed her eyelids. Without an inkling of doubt, she knew that the memory of it would never have stayed with her as clearly if it hadn’t been raining; vivid, like a dream she could take home as a multi-sensory painting and taste again whenever she longed for it.

A few days later, on that same adventure traveling across Europe, Vienna and Prague had farmer’s markets as well, just as famous, just as diverse, perhaps even more so. But it didn’t storm in Vienna or Prague. Without droplets of rain collecting over the lush leaves of produce, memories simply faded on the intricacies of their tastes and textures.

Storms were like nature trying to play with her so she could remember how to play, so she could stay inspired and creative; running through sprinklers, darting around squirt-guns, jumping in puddles flooding the streets, searching for that delicious, soul-restoring splash.