Brewing a storm

The air is thick and cool, the buzz of cicadas interspersed with the chirps of crickets. The clouds thicken in the sky, backlit by silent lightning that looks like flashes of fireworks' afterglow.

No one likes humidity. I do not relish trying to sustain myself on air as thick as soup, nor the sensation of my clothes clinging to the sweat clinging to my skin. But I love the seasons. I love to feel each season--at first, merciful relief from whatever torment the previous season has wrought, then twisting from salve back into agony yet again.

I love the lushness of summer. I love the overfull sensation of the thick air and dense green in all directions. The skies blacken, flash and crack with booms that shake the house. Torrents of water beat down, rushing through the streets, filling gardens until they can take no more, followed by gentle rain that sounds like the rustle of crinoline, swishing you to sleep.

Soon summer's heat will give way to bright fall days with dry, crisp air beckoning soft cozy sweaters out of the drawer. Then the days will steadily shorten as the leaves change and fall. The welcome cooling autumn days turn frigid, driving us indoors and inside ourselves. Though our modern lives provide us little respite during these dark days of the year, our spirits still curl in to hibernate. Just when we think we can't take the winter's blistering cold anymore--our skin is chapped, the dry air has scoured our sinuses and throats--the first blush of spring green unfurls itself with the returning light and warming air. The snow melt is hastened by chilly rain, and soon enough, the bright green darkens, the leaves fill out, and we again find ourselves in the heady days of August, the wet air glistening as sweat on our skin, our lungs working overtime to pull oxygen out of the heavy atmosphere.

The unpleasantness of each season has its own beauty. Each reminds us we are alive in its own unique way. So even though I may not particularly enjoy swimming through the air, I still relish the experience, and appreciate the relief of the next stage of the year when it arrives. While I also appreciate the miracle that is my air conditioner, you'll rarely find it on at home, in part because I'm cheap, but it also is a respite from the climate-controlled environment, a reminder that I am a creature of this world, alive in this time and place.

The rain has cooled the air now, the thunder has passed. I am going to go lay in my bed, the ceiling fan slowly stirring the dampness, and drift asleep to the music of the crickets and rain.