The storm blows in; a big one. I stand on the front porch, cold rain trying to reach for me. I usually hate storms. But I stand and smile. I fight the urge to step off that porch into the downpour. Let the cold water from the heavens wash over me…wash it all away.
Bring it on. Rage. God, Mother Nature, the universe…whoever brings the wind and torrential rain in buckets. Be angry. Thunder, lightning, rage. Bring it.
It feels good for someone bigger than myself to be angry. Today wasn’t a bad day. Nothing went terribly wrong. But the devil is in the details. The mundane is what gets me. The monotony of do this and finish that. Hurry up to get here and there. Take care of this and that. It can be exhausting, this every day, this being on the verge.
The verge is a tiring place to be. On the verge of crazy. On the verge of exhausted. On the verge of broke. On the verge of giving up. I want to rage. I don’t even have a real reason to, but I want to. Instead I complain about schedules and milk spilled on the living room rug.
Then I stand on that porch, and I feel someone bigger than me rage. Feel some heavenly, other world force be angry, for no reason I know of. I feel the wind forced and the rain thrown and the lightening hurled. I feel less alone in this craziness. I feel less like a failure. I feel like someone else knows what it’s like.
So now I sit in the powerless dark with a toy flashlight and a hardbound notebook and a pen, pouring my words out on a cream colored page with black gel ink. The storm ebbs and flows and I’m trying to decide if I’m still angry at life or if the rage has passed on like the wind and rain seem to have done. I try to tell myself to wake up tomorrow with a new day attitude and I wonder if I will take my own advice.
Sometimes I rage for no real reason. I don’t know if that makes me normal or broken. But either way, I peer into the pitch black night and hear the wind through the trees and the rain on cement and at least I know I am not alone. Bring it on.