Primal

The storm comes from the east this time. The smell of the wind brings sadness and anger. When storms blow up from the Southwest, they smell like dreams and hope and the future, but this storm just smells like bad news and bad business. It's as dark as a winter afternoon, even though it's mid-day. I stand outside to take pictures of the sky, and my hair whips my face as bits of tree branches snap and scatter around me.

It's probably not the safest thing in the world, to stand and watch the lightning, but it is a lot of fun. I've always been one who opens my windows to the storm and lets it flow over me and through my room. I remember, when I was younger, thinking that there was nothing more beautiful that opening all my windows and lighting all my candles and watching the flames twist and dance and leap in the wind that comes before a storm. There was a power there - I could taste it, feel it. When I moved to Chicago, that feeling went away. Cities aren't places where there's a lot of feeling connected with nature. Everything is glass and steel and stone, and when the wind blows it cuts like a knife, channeled artificially between the buildings. There's no blending with it, or opening to it. With wind like that, you can't spread your arms and feel like you're about to fly. This storm is different. This storm feels like home.