Storm.

6am. I need to pot these, obviously.

Raise your hand if the thunder / lightning / rain storm kept you up between the hours of 3-4am last night.

(Me!! Me!!)

I woke up about a half hour before (thanks again, insomnia) & heard it literally roll in. I love storms. I love how they often say hello & goodbye so gently, but create such a ruckus when they're really front & center.

The thunder started in the distance, as I suppose it always does. The rain came. And then I'm pretty certain that our apartment was the epicenter of it all. Storms have this unique way of creating a feeling of absolute vulnerability & humility. Last night was no exception.

It was really scary when we lived up on 92nd street (you know, back in the day) on the 29th floor. We felt like the lightning bolts were at eye-level. I'm not sure what's worse - that, or the sense that said bolts are striking within blocks of our apartment. One particular crash made my entire body jump, & then shake. Mike finally woke up at that point, grabbed me, & then held me tight until it was all over. It was loud. It was close. 

We kept the window halfway open all night (halfway so that we didn't get soaked). It was really nice, during those rolling in & rolling out parts.

Storms like this make me feel like (or rather, wish that) I'm a Priest Lake. They bring back memories of the days when we used to camp for two weeks at a time - all 9 of us - on Kallispel Island, where we'd huddle as a family as our tent got soaking wet during a massive storm. I'm pretty sure that I remember talking about how Heavenly Father must have been bowling & hitting strikes, or how the number of seconds between thunder crashes told us how many miles away the storm was. I remember other weekends where my dad would take us to Lake Coeur d'Alene just for an overnight trip to sleep on the boat (these were special trips), & we'd have to batten down the hatches & anchor close to shore when the thunder & rain came. Finally, they remind me of summers at the cabin, where inevitably at least once we find ourselves running out to the dock in our pajamas at 2am when such a storm hits to make sure that the boat is secured, the jet skis and kayaks are pulled safely up on the beach, & that anyone who decided to sleep under the stars on the dock that night is inside (although they've typically woken up long before, once the wind from the north kicks in). There's really nothing as wonderful as listening to the storm from the safety & comfort of the cabin, tucked under a big fluffy down comforter - preferably with a big cup of hot cocoa that Dad has just made. We have massive mugs at the cabin. The serve at least twice as much hot chocolate as any human being really needs at one time. It's wonderful. 

I guess it's always this time of year that I start really start missing Priest Lake. 

I couldn't go back to sleep for a long time. And then I thought about my Grandma, & how she used to call any time there was bad weather in New York. She would even call ahead of time to warn me, because she always stayed aware of what was going in my city, because I lived here, & she loved me. Always looking out for me. So formal, really. But also so considerate & personal. Supportive of me living here, which I so appreciated. I miss her in those small ways.

It's raining again.