Monsoon Memories
How many memories can a monsoon hold? When the clouds grow bigger than the sky itself and their bellies swell with rain, when the lighting cracks its brilliant whip and commands our attention, what stories are unleashed into the atmosphere?
I remember the time our motley crew of teen campers and counselors piled into vans in the middle of a Missouri rainstorm at 4:44am, throwing wet gear atop more wet gear - and wet bodies. It seemed like the best idea at the time to stop by Walmart in the wee hours of the stormy morning to get ice cream for everyone. Camp songs and frozen treats. Is there a better combo during a thunderstorm?
Then, there was the summer a monsoon hit when I was nine months pregnant with our second child. Our air conditioning died, and it was August in Phoenix. For two long evenings, I laid beached on the couch, ice cold washrags draped over my neck and forehead, a fan blowing constantly on my sweaty blob of a body. The world, my baby and me, we melted together. Ice cream, once again, was my only respite, but even it couldn’t stay solid long enough for me to devour the entire carton. When the first blast of cold air hit my face, I cried out in joy – and seriously considered naming our baby after the repairman.
Years later, in the middle of the night, adventure struck when a storm hit the top deck of a retreat building in Patagonia, AZ, where we had pitched our brand new tent, our young family sleeping inside. It is a blur, but I vaguely remember: the kids’ father wielding a wet machete in the moonlight, the sound of tent fabric and ropes ripping violently, huddling with the children in a bunk room humming hymns while the thunder roared, and the sight of the tent the next morning in a limp, red heap in the courtyard below, destined for the dumpster. To my astonishment, we all survived – exhausted, but unscathed.
Lastly, there is a memory so intimate, I dare not shine light on the details. I will let you piece it together in darkness as your imagination allows. It involved a lover, a gazebo, and an incomprehensible dismissal of the growing monsoon surrounding us as we made our own storm between us. To ease your mind, we both walked away, very much alive.
Storms have always held me in their powerful grasp, knowing just which pressure point to push to make me yield. I feel both helpless and in awe in the face of a storm. More gripping than any melodrama, more humbling than any mistake, I find myself submitting in a way only Mother Nature can command. All activity comes to a halt, logic slips away and I am mesmerized by the performance outside my window.
If I dare step outside, electricity buzzes through the air, damp earth fills my nostrils, and sky rumbles demand attention. Perhaps I am enthralled by storms because they are so rare here in Phoenix, where sunny skies dominate and rain is a scarce necessity. Or perhaps they would make me their captive wherever I am.
There is something infinitely powerful and sublime about Nature taking the reins and forcing us to pay attention, bow down, and succumb to Her antics. Tree limbs snap, transformers explode, rivers overflow and debris abounds. We are reminded of our own small insignificance. And when She is done, when the raging has settled into silence, we are left to survey the damage.
What is most fascinating to me about monsoons and other natural storms is that though the destruction may be insurmountable, possibly even resulting in death, there is no one to blame. There is no morality to weather patterns, no ethical standard by which we measure the severity of a storm. It is the ultimate demonstration of non-attachment. We cannot control anything but ourselves in the midst of a storm, certainly not the outcome. All we can do is step out into the light after, accept the scene in front of us, and carry on.
The storm in all its ferocity quickly becomes a memory, a story to tell, a small notch in the belt of all we have seen and survived. We may look at our loved ones asleep in their beds with a renewed sense of gratitude. We may walk through our neighborhood and feel compassion for those who lost trees or endured damage to their home. We may, for a moment when we flick on the light switch or open our computer to write, feel a sense of wonder at the power of electric currents that run our modern life.
And when we text our neighbor in the middle of a monsoon (like the very one during which I am writing now), and he comes running over through whipping winds, under the lightning-ridden sky to check on us, we may remember that moment we talked on our front porch as an act of courage, community and kindness. Because few things make us feel more alone than sitting in the dark, watching the world flash outside, wondering when we will get our power back.
Storms, like most challenges in life, make us feel vulnerable. But in their aftermath, they remind us of what we do have, the people who care about us, and the vast number of tiny details that give meaning to our lives every day. When we tell our stories of the storms we have endured and how we made it through, we inspire others to do the same. Together, we find strength, and our memories lend light to the darkest nights.
What storms - brought by Mother Nature or otherwise - have you endured?
