Love Like a Thunderstorm

Today, I huddled under the bus stop shelter as torrents of rain poured down outside. 

Vermont summer storms. 

A particularly long, sharp bolt of lightning flashed on the horizon. 

Water splashed on my toes. 

A little girl stood close to her mother beside me, sobbing. She was scared of the storm. Each crack of thunder louder than the last; I can’t remember the last time I heard thunder like that, reverberating in my chest, echoing in the pit of my stomach.

My dog is afraid of thunderstorms. She cowers in a tiny nook under a bathroom cabinet whenever she hears rumbling (she is a big dog, so this is quite impressive). The little girl next to me, too, appeared terrified of the wet and the noise and the turmoil. 

I love these storms. I prefer not to be stuck in them with my yoga mat and my laptop, like today, but that is another story.

A clap of thunder is like a jolt to my system; it energizes me. My body responds to lightning. I am hardwired, like most of us, to doggedly avoid a downpour, but when I accept the inevitability of being soaked, I relish the rivulets of rain on my skin.

I rarely write about love. The occasional poem or journal entry aside, I stick to more earthly things: travel, food, wellness. Wary of cliché and cautious of imitation, I leave love to the poets.  But the thunderstorm today inspired me; it was the perfect metaphor, I thought…