Dear _____,

It’s rare that you encounter a true storm here. By that, I mean proper pouring-down rain, thunder and lightning – that whole package. If you’re lucky, you’ll experience a storm maybe two or three times a year in this part of the world. I say “lucky” because I forget that not everyone enjoys these sorts of things. If you’re not used to it, I suppose it can be quite frightening. The low rumblings, the loud crashes, bright flashes exploding across a darkened sky. I forget it is sometimes seen as an inconvenience first, rather than something that can be soothing and mesmerizing.

Growing up in the Midwest does that to you. Yes, sometimes we had some storms that called for alarm… these being the ones accompanied by tornado sirens blaring or hail bulleting down to cause some real damage. But after enough casual thunderclaps and lightning strikes, the pitter-patter drumming on rain on a roof or windows – I can’t really explain it, but it becomes inviting.

It would always storm the worst during the summer, when the humidity from the ground worked its way into the cooler air and the resulting clash produced giant cumulonimbus clouds towering over everything. I found myself sitting out on the porch of my childhood home whenever these storms arrived. It was a fairly covered space, an awning protecting me from being directly in the rain, but the residual splashes from when the water first hit the ground still found a way to sprinkle on my bare feet. I remember sitting out there for as long as it stormed, watching the street dance with rain and staring at the leaves on the trees around the front yard react to each drop.

On those days, you could see how the rain moved, picking up in intensity or simmering down, just by watching the street. At points, the ripples would almost chime in the gentler moments, calmly bouncing off one another; at other times, rough splashes slammed into the concrete and the water was almost white like rapids. The rain would shift its mood like this, and you could see it move up and down the cul-de-sac. Whenever the wind would pick up, you knew that a heavier downpour was on its way and would interrupt the calm drizzle – maybe for a few minutes, maybe for a half hour. It was always a hypnotic sensory experience.

I don’t realize how much I miss those moments until writing them down here. Sure, you can still see traces of what I described here, an ocean away. The rhythm is just different – the streets dance to a different tempo and the breath of the wind hits different spots of you. The sounds are mostly the same, the main difference being a decrease in thundering rumbles and bright flashes etching across the sky. But… that’s okay. Even with all of its differences, I still find that same peace and serenity in the Scandinavian storms. I suppose now it’s just communicated in a different language, if that makes sense. Maybe you know what I mean.

Originally written 25-06-2025

Accompanying music: good morning by Covet