As I type this, white lightning forks the night sky to the south. After a deep pink cloud sunset in this land where we can go weeks without clouds, the warm air now rumbles low and deep and electric, and a hint of moisture scents on the building wind. Last night, that wind whistled and howled. It’s quieter tonight. The storm warnings are all for other parts of the city.
This is the chanciest time of year, here in the Southwest. The earth has gone dry through our bright-flower spring and dragon’s-breath early summer, and the brief rains we’ve had so far in the monsoon season that follows haven’t been sufficient to change that. Storms are moving in, but the land has yet to feel them. This is the season where lightning can meet dry wood, where dry wood can flare high and hot with little warning.
Change is moving in. We all feel it.
But it isn’t here yet, and the last moments before a change are the most perilous. They’re the moments when growth can catch flame and turn to ash. When one can be tempted to walk away from long-time challenges, struggles, goals. There’s energy here, but little else. Why not use that energy to change course and move on while we can? This building tension can’t last. It never does.
Except, if we wait, maybe it will rain. It doesn’t always, of course, even in this officially rainy season.
But sometimes–sometimes it does.
Header lyrics from Cordero’s “Close Your House Down.”