Storm clouds gather outside. I hear the thunder, and feel it rumble deep in my chest. It’s Sunday. Life has been a bit stormy this year. I am grateful for the shelter over my head. I am not hungry. I am restless. I find myself wishing for chocolate, which I do not have. I hear the tick of the battery-operated clocks in the room. It is the song of the passage of time.
Outside the musty dirt-smell of the rain grows, as drops of wetness start to dot the concrete. It thunders. The world reverberates, and the heavens unleash its flood, but I am dry as I stand in my doorway looking out. I retreat from the storm.
I stop to put on a load laundry to add the rotating rock of the spin cycle to the sounds of the day. In this modern society, there is no such thing as true silence to the hearing. If it is not the modern sounds of society than it is the wild sounds of life around you, crickets, frogs, birds, and other such things. Life goes on. It cycles just like the washing machine to bring about a change. Dirty clothes to clean clothes. Season to season. Life to death, and then it begins again.
I sit down at my laptop to write with a cup of coffee in hand, and I am grateful for this time. I am grateful for the gift of imagination. I am grateful for the rising and setting of the sun, because for me, in this moment, life goes on, and the thunder booms. It is only a season.
Appendix List of Lyrical Wanderings for your convenience, or you can just scroll down through them.