Storm in a Teacup

A thunderstorm is my favourite natural phenomena. One is occurring as I type these words.Although only mild of fury,it has inspired me to corral my splintering,impressionistic thoughts into a crazy,shuddering little form of expression. Rain,especially when accompanied by thunder and lightning,causes one of two reactions in me:the instantaneous need to seek cozy sleep or the impetus to get up off of my ass and do something either creative or practical.When I wake to a grey,rain-chilled morning,all I can think about is slinking back under the covers,stretching my legs and falling back asleep;setting my internal clock seamlessly to the length of the storm.When the drops cease to fall,I am ready to begin my day.I wish that I lived such a relaxed existence that listening to my internal rhythms was a relevant way to pace things.Unfortunately,that is a luxury that too few can ever know beyond the space of a vacation.

Today's storm has made me active and pensive,an entirely unsurprising duality either for myself or Mother Nature.When the skies darkened a couple of hours ago,and I heard the first faint echoing of thunder in the distance,I became energized after a day spent lulling about with no deeper direction beyond that of passing time.Occasionally,when this storm-activated antsiness sets in,I want to clean things:scrubbing and scouring somehow seems like the proper companion to the water and noise and movement unfolding out-of-doors.Not today.A need to write came upon me,fiercely,as it does when there are things fighting to be released:I swiftly obeyed that call,although I had planned a rare day more or less without words.I had vowed to be disciplined,with my focus firmly pointed outwards:to light and fresh air,to a place where thoughts and creativity could not intrude.Yes, I had planned to attempt that rarest of pastimes but the rain--and the real culprit,thunder--worked against the integrity of my intentions.
So,here I sit,typing away at a subject neither planned nor well-thought out but aching to be released nonetheless.The storm set me to thinking,and brought out my current pensiveness.There is something about nature in turmoil (however slight and of the ordinary)that makes me feel more alive,more willing to take chances.It insists that I flow with the moment and not to a pre-determined schedule that was locked in place before present circumstances erupted.It is a testament to the flexibility of the human mind how a passing storm can cause one to reflect,albeit too quickly to grasp,on so many things.While there is no promise of cohesion to be found in such a state(or the writing born of it),to my eyes at least,everything else is held in the brevity and grandeur of a storm,and in this moment.