When I was a little girl, my dad used to take me out on the front porch when it rained, and point to the places in the sky where he thought the lightning would show up. We'd stand on the porch, in the dark, in the rainy greyness and watch for hours as the blinding flashes of crooked light rained down in the skies around us. I had never before seen something so fascinating. Something that made me feel so humbled. I didn't realize that until much much later, of course. Then it was all about the child-like wonder of shiny new things. Of the 'why does it happen's. It's raining here, tonight, and as I sit on my porch writing this, I'm looking for lightning on the horizon, above the tops of the houses that surround me. I always look for it instinctively, as soon as the first raindrop hits. It's built into me - a habit - a love.
In many ways, I am often homesick for the place that I grew up. For the close companionship of my family. The comforts of 'home'. I don't often think about it, but tonight, as I'm sitting by myself, looking for lightning bolts, it felt clearer than it has in a while. We are so many things when we grow up and get older, leaving home for places anew. But the things that stay with us, whether we're down the street, or halfway around the world, are the little things we were taught to appreciate by those who love us. I'm so grateful for lightning.