There's something almost magical about a northern rainstorm. You know the feeling, right? When the world is slowly turning into spring, and suddenly out of nowhere, the winds rush in, the sky darkens to a blue gray haze, the air feels new and alive. It beckons us from our houses, to stand in the garden and let ourselves feel the change happening right around us. Right here. Right now. And then come these big, pelting drops and the sky begins to lighten again in spots and perhaps its only raining in front of the house and not in the backyard. It's uneven and fleeting, wistful yet imploring.
It's different in the south. A Florida thunderstorm is a wild, drenching beast, droplets of water hanging like a fog in the air as buckets pour down from the sky. It's a humid, monstrous mess, and it's beautiful in its own way. But there's just something so special, so raw and vulnerable about a northern storm.
A northern storm makes everything feel fresh and clean; there's a faint breath of trepidation in the air, a sense of growing in the soil. You can smell the earth beneath your feet, just beginning to awaken. The winter leaves stir about, whipping across the ground, scattering sound and motion in their path. And as quickly as it arrived, it's gone again. And in its wake, the world is left with a hint of hope for the new season almost upon us.
I missed this, so much. More than I can explain.