The Storm

The Storm

    Yesterday evening a storm rolled through, the sky still bright enough to mimic daylight which seemed unusual for an evening storm.  But even without the darkened skies, the storm had arrived without the predicted fanfare, the high 60-mph winds and the raucous cold hail that was supposed to follow.  Instead, this storm was here to basically cash in my ticket, to treat me to a showing with its horizontal lightning and thunder that seemed to move more quickly than the artillery sounds of war.  As I stood in the patio doorway, the screen wide open to catch the light and the sound and the moisture, the storm seemed to grow in intensity as if a bully taunting me to step outside.  Come on out you wuss, it was saying.  Outside, the trees seemed caught in a conundrum, at once grateful to be so thoroughly cleaned and washed and yet recognizing that they were unable to move should the storm begin to grow angry, the winds perhaps forcing them to bend past the point that it was either comfortable or beneficial (the swaying of trees actually strengthens their limbs and trunks).  The birds were silent, no chirping or singing now.  Something was growing stronger, and then...it stopped.

    I turned and told my wife that this was apparently quite a fast-moving storm, took another glance and got ready to close the screen and then...lightning.  It streaked across the sky, still as bright and blinding in the light gray and forcing my eyes to blink.  Then the thunder returned, this time even louder as if the storm was merely taking a breather.  The sound rolled from canyon to canyon with ease as if mythological crows talking from different trees, the noise and lighting more wondrous and frightening than any fireworks display Disneyland could muster up.  I could only marvel at the show, as if whatever I had paid for this ticket was well worth it.  And then just as quickly, the storm again moved on, this time far out of my range as I heard the rumbling and its grumbling now well up the next canyon and then gone; only the rain staying like an usher left to clean up, the music of its falling as calming as that of a stream.  Shows over folks, keep moving, nothing to see here.

    Once I had ignored much of this, standing under a near-identical storm and glibly talking on a cordless phone (remember all those warnings to get off the phone during a storm?).  And I had written about storms and lightning in an earlier post, about it's power and its ability to travel upwards as well as sideways (as mentioned then, fewer than 25% of lightning strikes are the typical cloud-to-ground streaks we think of).  But here I was, casually telling my brother that this was quite a storm, the thunder louder than I could remember from the past, the lightning (from what I could see for I was standing under my covered patio) just dazzling and lighting up the sky with sheets of light like a photographer gone mad.  And then a bolt struck the ground, likely about a half block away but enough for me to taste sulfur in my mouth and to cause my ears to ring for a few seconds.  It had hit the street intersection, or somewhere nearby.  Something.  But it was close, as in close.  I've got to get off the phone, I told my brother.  Now!

    All of that, I believe, was a simple lesson to just pay attention.  This storm of last night wasn't a typhoon or hurricane, there was no tidal wave coming, no gale force winds to blows homes off of their foundations and take down power lines.  But this was marvel enough.  It was a simple reminder of nature to just stop and listen, to feel, to look.  We could have our toys and weapons and thoughts of grandeur; but when it came down to it, when nature simply wanted to move some water around and shift the winds a bit, it would easily do so.  Canyon to canyon, mountain to mountain, city to city...no problem.  There was more than enough power, more than enough energy to carry all of this with ease.  And if we wanted more, well, no problem there as well...but pay attention.  John Muir did this, being so fascinated at the sound of a storm that he climbed to the tops of trees to feel such storms from above; what was it like up there he wondered.  Indeed, I wondered the same, grateful that my hearing allowed me this chance to capture the quick movements of the thunder as it moved across what seemed hundreds of miles within seconds.  Back and forth, back and forth, the storm was talking.  Who wouldn't be fascinated to know what it sounded like even closer to that sound?

    Some years ago, standing stop Angel's Landing in Zion National Park, I was able to bear witness to something similar, watching as a storm moved closer and closer to me from deep at the mouth of the canyon.  From that viewpoint, the sound echoed through the rivulets of the park, sparking back and forth as if searching for an exit or perhaps clearing a path for the royal display yet to arrive.  It was spectacular, and in my naivete (and stupidity, really, for here's what's posted on the park's website: Do not hike during a thunderstorm--lightning will strike.), I was standing there alone, thousands of feet high and hearing the sound both above and below me, as well as all around me on the sides, wishing I had several dozen sets of ears to take it all in.  It must have been similar to Muir, except that he was swaying dangerously on the top of a tree.

Angel's Landing at Zion Park ©utah.com

Nearing the top of Angel's Landing ©utah.com

    We can all pause, perhaps we all should pause.  Not every storm will drive us to gaze and wonder and maybe drive a small wedge of fear into our bones.  But as with standing on a cliffside and witnessing waves growing taller and taller as they crash on the rocks below, their efforts to reach you futile for the time being, perhaps we need to recognize that we are indeed a bit cowardly, perhaps not so much out of fear as out of respect.  Those winds and lightning and waves are nature showing us a small part of her own arsenal, a part of us really.  And maybe we need to stop taking it all for granted.  As with life, we sometimes need to be snapped out of the everyday if only to remind us of what happens every day.  Free...but only for those who pay attention.