As I strolled through the gardens this morning,
greeting the inhabitants, admiring their lush greens
and fine forms, I found myself pulling dried leaves
blown from the hillside by the night’s strong breeze,
trapping them in the garden’s greenery where, to my eye,
they marred the scene, looking quite out of place.
It was almost an unconscious motion, a tidying up
that seems to be second nature to me now.
One crumpled leaf, just above eye level, jolted me
awake. This was no leaf. This was cool leather
wiggling in my hand. Startled by its motion,
I flung it down, where it landed on the lily leaves
and let me study its decorated wings. Later I learned
it ‘s called a “blinded sphinx moth.” Some gifts come
with such special names and colors, and every one
is a delight and a surprise.

“Wow! Thunder! Lightning! How ’bout that, campers!” I wrote in my journal as I sat down to begin this letter to you. “And now the rain and the scent of it and the sploosh of tires on the road, and still, thunder rolls off to the west. “

 I remember watching storms on the Saginaw Bay as a child. Of course we watched stars on clear nights as well. But the thunder storms were something special. Let me tell you about them.

Sometimes I’d be asleep and my dad would come into my room and wake me to ask if I wanted to watch a thunderstorm. Then he’d carry me out to the enclosed sun porch overlooking the Saginaw Bay and sit me on the big swing between him and my mom, and they’d snuggle up against me, and we’d rock and oooh and ahhh at the show. When the lightning flashed, you could see the boughs of the poplars and cottonwoods whipping in the wind and the white caps on the waves on the Bay. It was wonderful.

I was never afraid of storms, having been introduced to them in such a cozy, secure way. What a gift that was, I think, looking back. I learned that storms had great power and were to be respected. When a tornado ran through a nearby town one year, we went on a drive to see just how deserving of respect wind could be. Dad showed me how lightning could cleave the broad trunk of a tree.

But respect for potential danger is different from fear. Fear blinds you. Respectful awareness lets you assess your situation, take stock of things like possible shelters or exits or the location of helpful tools. And you make that assessment in a flash, your brain being such a magnificent piece of work, then go back to paying attention to whatever drama is unfolding before you, ready to respond with action, or with ooohs and ahhhs.

So, I was thinking about that scene of snuggling with mom and dad and watching the storm when a soundtrack began playing in my head. (Sometimes my mind just does that.) It was the cast from the Rodgers and Hammerstein Broadway hit “Carousel,” singing “You’ll Never Walk Alone,” If you’re of a certain age, you might remember Elvis Presley singing it, too.

“When you walk through a storm,” the lyrics say, “keep your chin up high, and don’t be afraid of the dark.” Do that, and keep hope in your heart, and you’ll never walk alone, they say. I think they’re right. I smiled, even if it felt sort of schmaltzy to have that old song play. Fact is, there’s a lot of encouragement in the song. It reminds you that storms are always followed by light and a world where larks sing.

My mom and dad packed a lot of warmth and comfort in their hugs. I have so much that I’d like to give a piece of it to you, as a present, just because. Fold it up and put it in your pocket, and the next time you face a storm, hold it in your heart or your hand to remind you, “Chin up; you are not alone.”

Warmly,
Susan

^{Image by ELG21 on pixabay}