I woke up depressed. I wanted my heart to sing, to travel with the light down the back roads of my soul. But all I could think about was the storm I rode into yesterday.
They said it would rain. They said it would thunder.
So I headed west, searching for a place I would see the clouds build, feel the cold, wet wind, and be shaken by the thunder that rolls over these mesas and canyons.
I stood on the rim of my favorite overlook, watching the clouds roll in, watching the sun slowly disappear. It wasn't enough, standing on the edge of the earth and waiting, so I drove into the blackest cloud I could find, deliberately, challenging the forces, wanting them to make me FEEL SOMETHING.
The clouds became angry. The storm raged. Hail swept over me, baptizing me with its cold, hard rain and icy pellets. I sat on a hill, watching the lightning to the west. Did the storm increase in intensity as the day went on, or had I found the heart of the storm on that hill, the thunder calling me, the lightning flashing all around?
The rain, the hail, the thunder subsided as the sun set, and I walked through the wet leaves that covered the road. The clouds had turned purple, orange, and pink. The mountains, lost in those clouds, reflected the colors back to the sky. Mountain and sky talked like gods in watercolor words that changed and grew and became the only reality I knew as I watched from below.
Finally, I felt something. My soul was bruised and broken. I knew I would be leaving this place again, and I wondered if these storms, these sunsets, these moments that only happen once in a lifetime were begging me to stay, or if they knew I was ever there at all.