Bring It

I can think of many problems and difficulties I would just as soon skip. But a minute ago I went out on my back porch, and a rare winter thunderstorm was brewing up, the wind blowing and the air unnaturally warm, and the threat of bad weather gave me a fierce joy. No idea why, but since I was a little kid I've loved it when bad weather comes on. Could there be a crusty ship captain in one of my previous incarnations? The wind blows, the trees toss, and a gleam comes in my eye. Bring it on, I think—we'll see who wins. I'm quite the quaking soul with other things I could name, but with bad weather I'm a Viking. That eye-gleam glows, and I don't really care who wins, me or the storm, I just want to know how the contest will come out. I remember when I was little, four or five, my family huddling in the basement during a hurricane. I enjoyed it—it was different. And I also remember melting snow for water when a blizzard killed the electricity and there was no water from the well in the rustic inn I used to live in. Some of my favorite memories come from bad storms, actually. I suppose that's because it isn't about me. The storm doesn't care if my clothes are unfashionable or my musical tastes unhip. It's not about me at all. It's about existing, or not existing. Nothing personal, in other words. The weather doesn't care if I live or die—it doesn't care about me at all. And I like it that way. Strange, no?