One aspect of spring that I look forward to every year is the dark and cloudy violence of a seasonal storm. There is something compelling about rainstorms in the spring. I can’t help myself. I am drawn to the window to raise a slat in the blinds and peek out to see, for myself, what is going on. I smile a little at the turbulent sky. Mother Nature is replenishing the Earth, nurturing it with the water it needs to turn lush and green in a few weeks. The front yard is embracing the rain. Flower stems are unbreakable as they lean into the wind with petals wide open, ready to grow into a beautiful spread of daisies and daffodils and violets. In a few weeks, days maybe, when I come home, the walkway to the front door will be welcoming, beautiful, lush…and I will smile.

            Right now, the Earth’s atmosphere is lashing out. A sudden bolt of lightning flashes across the ceiling of my bedroom and sends me scrambling into bed with my man. As he welcomes me with open arms, we burst into a fit of laughter. He teases me for being afraid, but I am not afraid. Instead, I am in awe of the power a spring storm unleashes. Lightening jig jags across the sky as the clouds part with a brief glimpse of light. The storm is promising  illumination on the other side. The storm is telling me all of its secrets. Deep within the safety of his arms, I close my eyes and realize everything else is still. The storm is demanding my undivided attention.

          Spring storms have a way of making me nostalgic and feeling incredibly alive. Their turbulence jolts my soul into remembering previous storms when I was filled with tremendous sadness. While spring storms hold the element of renewal close, I am reminded that I am not as young as I once was. Seasons pass, day into night and finally storms into spring. I feel deeply the loss of people who were important to me, those I knew and those I never got the chance to meet. Family, friends…and like the spring, these people gave birth to me, nurtured me and all that I am. It is only in the spring that I feel the obligation to be better, to do better, and that sense of well-being carries me through the year into the next spring.

          I turn in his arms, and I long for his touch as the rain pounds against the windows. My heart beats within my chest. Thunder is no longer the only sound in the room. I can hear his heart beating calmly in my ear, and I am soothed. I move to weave my legs into his. He nods, almost asleep. As I lay there, I realize the storm is whispering now, with intermittent rain. The air is still full of sound. Only the sounds are in the distance. Is the storm moving on? I hear water flowing down the street in a curiously harmonious rift between wetness and asphalt, and the gurgling of sewers overflowing. Cars are moving past the corner at the end of the block. Someone is walking their dog in the silence. The trees and grass are still. The Earth has stopped for a moment, gulping down its share of water trying to quench an unquenchable thirst.

          My pillow is laying at the bottom of the bed. I pull it to me, turn over on my side, and bury my head deep into it. I feel him turn on his side as he pulls me closer. This time his legs are wound through mine. What is it about a turbulent sky that has the ability to seduce, that makes the bed so enticing that a day spent there is refreshing? Science attempts to explain that a thunderstorm assaults the senses with rhythmic noises that induce slumber. No matter the practical reasons, I like to think the rain is actually the universe laying a path toward regeneration. Abruptly, the respite is over. Lightening cracks the sky open, and the drama begins all over again. I close my eyes when I feel his arm drop protectively across my body. The room grows dark as the clouds move in, and we both sleep.