Rain

Growing up, I'd lie in bed listening to the rain hit the aluminum patio awning just beneath my bedroom window. How many nights did I drift off, the staccato plink plink plink keeping the steady rhythm of my breath as I faded into sleep.

Sometimes I'd crack my window to hear it better, to feel the mist that blows in on a breath of air through the window screen.

:::

I love the sound of rain on our tent. It's a soft, muted sound as drops hit fabric, rolling down the sides, soaking the ground, leaving us dry and safe inside.

There's something about danger or discomfort just outside my bounds that makes me feel safe.

I remember that storm in Door County, the fiercest rain storm we'd ever camped in. Owen was a few months shy of two. We were heading north to camp with my family and we spent our first night camped in a great big field of a place, tent pitched in the wide open.

The thunder and lightening blew up on top of each other, like hard contractions at the peak of labor, just before you push.

Those bolts lit up our tent like heaven shining down. The wind ripped so strong it sent water vapor blasting through the tiny pores of the tent fabric, a horizontal mist shooting through.

Owen nestled between us in our tiny tent. I was worried he'd be scared - we were smack dab under it all with nothing but nylon between us and that wicked, raging storm. The pounding rain, the torrents and cracks and flashes, the sky split open wide, bolts shredding the night.

I reached my arm out of my sleeping bag and pulled him closer. He covered his eyes with his chubby little hands, blocking out the rapid-fire flashes. Without even a whimper, he rolled to his side, tucking his little face into my chest and fading back into sleep.

To feel that safe and secure, to have that degree of trust.

I laid awake until that storm passed. Not afraid, just in awe.

Eventually the system moved on; rips, crackles and breaks receding into the distant night, the torrents lightening up to drops, pelting our tent softly, lulling me to sleep in the early morning hours, chest rising and falling in rhythm with my son.