When the sky would turn gray and swallow the afternoon sun, my mother would coax us out to the screened in porch. She’d huddle us together, cover us with blankets and a kiss. Then she’d have us listen to the tap dance of the rain on the roof.
I loved it that no one else in our neighborhood was sitting in screened-in porches during storms. The sensible had raced inside at the first sound of thunder. But not my tribe, led by my medicine woman mother who would teach us the most profound lessons about nature. I loved it that she could see the adventure in stormy weather when most people feared it.
I relished in my mother’s warmth and playfulness. I loved the coziness of these blanketed affairs and the celebration of Mother Nature who was busy nourishing our yard, giving our gardens and our apple tree a good drink.
To this day I feel my mother in my bones at the first sign of a storm moving in with mist on the mountain outside my house. I smile knowing she is with me in spirit, even when she’s miles away.
The rains showed my mother in her finest hour; she was brilliant at showing us unbridled adventure in the simplest of things.
When I watched the movie “Midnight in Paris” and Gil Pender (Owen Wilson) was dying to walk in the rain, I thought of my mother. She would have loved to walk in the rain for hours in Paris; she would adore the city of light in gray.
Like music performed by an orchestra, a storm has movements – the light showers, the downpour, the thunder.
When I was a little girl I cherished our porch ritual because we got a chance to witness my mother’s free spirit. She refused to be afraid of storms, and she refused for us to be afraid of them either. Instead, she taught us to stare down fear with joy.