Last night we had a pretty awesome thunderstorm and I must admit I find excitement in them. I find solace in that something so metaphorical of rage can be so beautiful.
Dad and I used to stand outside or by the window to watch storms in awe. I cannot forget the night the tornadoes came through a nearby town and Dad took us for a drive not long after the signs of danger had left. Thank goodness he turned back before he reached the flooded bridge.
I have stood to watch storms with my stepfather as well, but it seems to connect with nature is something left between my father and me. He taught me to fish. We moved firewood together. He took trailriding on our horses. He took pictures of me standing in a dry creekbed.
I have always been able to see the beauty in nature and I believe my Dad taught me this. After all, he is the one who taught me to shoot an arrow, humored my interest in Native Americans and me the wonder of nautre simply in the way he lived. Maybe my life can be a testament to that. I want to be remembered as a beautiful person-a woman who loved.