I Wanna Know, Have You Ever Seen The Rain?

I love a good thunderstorm and today’s was quite a beauty.

The warning rumbles had been echoing across the sky all day without any sign of their aftermath, so my running buddy and I decided to call the storm’s bluff and head for the park anyway. According to Enid Blyton, it won’t rain if there’s enough blue sky to make a sailor’s trousers, and there was still a sliver of blue up above. Of course, my sailor would have to be smaller than a hobbit but that’s beside the point.

We had just worked up a nice sweat when the sound of a grand piano crashing down a staircase boomed in the heavens. A gentle wind blew. A flock of birds took off in a hurry. Panting joggers and cuddling couples peered up nervously. The sight took my breath away.

Clouds, grey as an elephant’s hide, were rolling in from the direction of the Twin Towers. Thick, massive and pregnant. Everyone made a run for it.

The rain came lashing down as soon as I was safely in my apartment’s covered car park. Raindrops the size of petai came hammering on the plastic roof, the racket more deafening than music in a Telawi Street bar. Thunder growled louder, lightning flashed and bits of paper pirouetted crazily across the floor.

By the time I reached my apartment, the orchestra that heralds a storm’s arrival had begun. First up was the slamming of doors. Then the crashing of flimsy clothes hangers made its debut, followed by the rattling of glass doors. Next was the distant wail of a siren, built into a crescendo with the cacophony of car alarms.

I stood at my balcony door, watching skinny trees being gleefully whipped in all directions by a merciless wind. Watching adults sprinting through puddles and children strolling through them. Watching flowerbeds turn into miniature ponds. Watching familiar landmarks in front of my apartment slowly disappear behind a shimmering white curtain of rain.

I took a deep breath. The air smelt fresh, clean and sharp. A shot of pure air in my lungs. Instinctively, I sat on the floor pulling my legs into the lotus position. It was the perfect time to indulge in breathing and meditation. Two minutes later, a purple bolt sliced into the greyness and sent me scuttling to the other end of the room.

I popped on some lounge music and watched the rest of the storm. It raged for another half-hour, then gradually weakened and eventually died down. The air hung like as light as a piece of chiffon. The street lights came on and the swing, slide, monkey bars, cars and leaves glistened like the y had been sprinkled with tiny diamonds. Everything was shiny again.

I love a good thunderstorm. Not only because of its beauty but also because it’s the one thing that gets us to slow down and relax. Nothing else does. Not a migraine, not the flu, not an unhappy partner or child, not even a punctured tyre. But rain? That immediately stops people in their tracks. Forces them to stay put. Persuades them to put their frenetic schedules on hold with a coffee and a magazine, by calling an old friend, by doing a spot of spontaneous shopping, by getting a massage…I could go on longer than a Duracell battery.

Today’s storm was beautiful. Not only for what it did for the world but also what it did for me.