Catching Lightning

I didn’t realize how much nostalgia I carried for thunderstorms.

I watched a friend’s video, a few week’s back, where she captured fifteen seconds of a brutal storm in Manhattan. It was so visceral: the steam rising off of dark streets cooled by heavy rain, streams of water pooling into gutters, flashes of quick light over the tops of skyscrapers. And the soundtrack: that deep familiar rumble.

I started posting in the Facebook comments how much I was enjoying this video, and how much I missed these storms! Then I erased it.

Maybe I was being insensitive and romanticizing bad weather? Fetching buckets to catch the rain that inevitably found its way inside our apartment. Sirens blaring in the background.

And, now, power outages on top of a pandemic.

So secretly, I just watched the video over and over, enjoying it alone.

And then, three nights ago, I woke around 3Am to flashes of lightning, and the sound of heavy rain, and, yes, the familiar rumble!

I was excited! I went outside; I took photos and video. I watched it back: Twenty seconds of nothing: Just darkness and the sound of raindrops.

I caught some still shots: pleasant shades of light behind the large cypress tree: lavender; orange; pink; a pale green.

The kids were up by this point and came into our bed. What could be better than this? the big one asked the little one, cozying under our blankets. It was enough.

The next morning I took them to the beach.

As soon as their feet touched the sand, they tore off their sneakers and began unpacking small shovels and buckets. My kids are so grateful to live near a beach. They were unfazed by the remnant of chill and a sky that still looked ominous.

I took a few pictures of them on my phone, and while admiring their playfulness, I saw a bolt of lightning directly over the ocean.

When I reviewed my photos, there it was; in the third of four still shots, I had caught it, a lightning bolt.

I don’t need to unpack this one; the way we catch lightning when we’re not chasing after it.

What’s more sacred to me is the way my kids are oblivious to what looks like a near apocalyptic scene of the earth cracking open behind them.

How they are constantly present in the moment they’re inhabiting.

Maybe that’s why I find so much consolation in thunderstorms, and the physical experience of being caught in one.

How present I find myself in the sounds and sensations of all that rain and rumble — and occasionally— a flash of such undeniable light.

Continued Strength & Love friends.

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