I Couldn't See the Lightning for the Trees

I love thunder and lightning storms.  The lighting of a dark night or the crash followed by a scissor streak across the sky - drama at its best.  At such times, I can often be found on the front porch watching, oblivious to time.  We humans think we are so powerful, so in control of our own destinies.  But can you still think so when watching such majestic power inhabit the entire expanse overhead?  With awe, can you begin to understand your nothingness, not with resignation but rather reverence?  I will always view these displays with complete respect.

Yesterday as I sat in my library chair a storm passed by.  My chair is in a corner and both walls beside me are floor to ceiling windows.  I was privy to the sight of copious amounts of rain.  (Strange to see it so near and yet be untouched by its effects.)  I was startled many times by the low bass of thunder echoing on and on.  Yet, I could see no lightning.

There is a logical explanation for this.  Outside the library window is first a small patch of grass then a large stand of tall trees.  The trees were full of leaves, blowing in the wind.  Only a few had started to undress for winter.  I could not see past them.

I suppose this was a good thing.  Writing would have certainly been interrupted and upstaged by lightning.  But it does give one pause.

If you hear a dog bark without seeing it you can still picture a dog.  But imagine for a moment you have never seen a dog.  What would the bark mean to you?  What would be conjured up as the source of such a strange sound?

Writing, it seems, can make good use of both knowledge and the lack thereof.  The Jurassic Park tremors in the water puddles were startling because you knew what was coming, even if you didn't know how or when, kind of like a lightning strike.  But equally suspenseful can be the sound without an owner, our imaginations  inventing the worst.

And one last thought - different techniques for different times.  Today the trees are bare.  Yesterday's storm knocked all the figurative clothing off the line.  As a result I can see much farther today.  But I do miss the trees.