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I didn’t get it back then, that time so long ago when my father said, “I miss thunderstorms.” In the later years of his life, my father moved from Western Pennsylvania to Southern California, a place of good memories, a place he had loved during the prime of his life. After his move, the one thing Dad missed enough to mention was thunderstorms. When he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and deeply, painfully reflective, I sent him an audio cassette tape of a booming, drenching thunderstorm. When I sent the tape, I thought it was just a weather event that my father had been missing during his years in endless sunshine, but as I sit at my desk today, in the later years of my life, listening as the rain pounds down just outside my own window, I understand that his longing was for something more than rain. All around me I feel the growing stillness. Thunder is rolling in the distance. It is ten o’clock in the morning but dark as late evening. The tree outside my window begins to bend and sway in the wind. The leaves on the tree shimmy from the force of sudden, large, pelting raindrops. Traffic and outdoor activity cease. The birds that had been singing earlier are nowhere to be seen or heard. While the typical outdoor sounds are absent save for the thunder and the rain, the sounds inside my apartment are amplified: the ticking of the clock, the hum of the refrigerator, the quiet whir of the ceiling fan, the beating of my heart. Somehow, I am more alive and alert in the stillness. My busy mind is stilled too. I am aware of nothing but the sensory experience around me, the life force within me. A bolt of lightning makes me blink. It is followed by a crash of thunder that makes me jump. It is not a feeling of fear or helplessness, but one of a greater wisdom: it is wise to stop, to attend. The thunderstorm carries me away. I am here but not here. I am living inside a snow globe where it is the world beyond the glass that is being shaken. Time stops. I am given a free pass to do nothing but listen. Somehow the weather settles in me and on me. I am cloaked in humidity and sound. The thunder reverberates in my ears, and like an electric shock, stimulates my heart that moves in synch. I am in the rain but not in the rain. My body becomes a sympathetic barometer of the weather outside. I think back to my mother shouting, “Get away from the window,” as she chased me and my siblings off the couch where we had settled on our knees to watch the storm outside. She pulled the drapes. Mom never explained the science, but we grasped her fear that lightning could strike us through the glass if it chose to take such aim. But I am a grown up now, a taller version of that former curious, perhaps incalcitrant, child I sit in front of the window, drapes opened wide, and I watch: the eerie stillness as the storm whips up a fever, the thrashing, and then the return to stillness, the dark clouds hovering, taking a pause, re-committing to another downpour. I wonder: why am I not afraid of something so ominous? I take in the lesson from nature--facing the things so much bigger than us, so much out of our control, things that will pass. I am calm, a calmness that is something more than acceptance of the storm or its eventual passing. Somehow, I am joined with nature in the divine plan that all the things are one, the things that say: STOP. LISTEN. BE. There is nothing else but this. The storm calms. The leaves and the branches are still. They shake off the rain drops in the last breath of wind. They bounce back to full attention, listening for the sun’s commands. I hear the revving of a car engine. Someone making a break for it…whatever “it” is. A faint light appears in the sky through clouds that are now white and light enough to see the blue behind them. Do the clouds lift? Or do we? Cleansed by the pause, from the moments when we turn ourselves over to the forces of nature? For a brief time we are stilled, more aware of our authentic Garden-of-Eden selves, more aware than daily life allows us to be. We are quiet, outwardly attentive, inwardly connected to the electricity that powers all of nature. Life itself is a passing storm. We are given moments when nature brings man’s plans to a halt, moments to rest and reflect. Moments when darkness gives way to light. So much of what demands our attention is inconsequential--oil changes and laundry. The emerging light in the sky says, “Safe. At ease. As you were.” And so we pick up with chores of the day. But can we really be “as you were?” This life doesn’t really belong to us. It is a passing storm. There is peace and sunshine on the other side. I will see you there one day, Dad.
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Night time sharpens, Heightens each sensation Darkness stirs and wakes imagination Silently the senses Abandon their defenses… … listen to the music of the night (Music of the Night, Lyrics by Charles Hart and Richard Stilgoe) Yesterday, the harsh winter gave an inch, and spring took a mile. Overnight, we went from the depths of winter to late spring. The temperature rose by 42 degrees! Folks were out and about in their shorts and tank tops. Where the bike path had been desolate, it was now teeming with joggers, walkers, bikers, and dogs on long leashes. Everyone was smiling. Even the dogs.
It was so good to be back outdoors, and to be free of coats and hats, boots and gloves. After a day outdoors, I found myself tiring early, and I headed to bed about 9:00 PM with the windows wide open. Despite my fatigue, I lay awake in bed for hours, the air alive with sounds, sounds that a winter night keeps to itself behind the cloak of darkness, closed windows, and insulating snow. I lay in my bed, listening to the quiet, whispered song of the ceiling fan circling overhead. Occasionally, the long silver chain jingled on the twirling air like a choir of tiny bells. A long train rumbled in the distance like a thundering bass drum. The building shook like a giant morocco. The train’s air horn accentuated the beat with a mighty vibrato. Cars whooshed down the four-lane highway at the end of my drive, nylon brushes against brass cymbals. Sirens screamed in the near-distance like blares from a horn while a helicopter hovered overhead with the steady chop-chop of its propeller. A soft breeze kept the mini blinds tapping a steady beat against the window frame. The night was a dark theater. The phantom of summer had returned. I listened in awe-filled silence as I welcomed back the music of the night! Each morning I thank God for the shared-use bike path outside my door. It keeps me sane and literally on the straight and narrow path during these difficult times. Despite its location along a four-lane, high-access highway, it is not deprived of nature. The city has planted a line of trees that form a barrier between the highway and some of the commercial buildings. Many of the businesses maintain small gardens and pots of flowers at their doors. Every establishment is surrounded by well-manicured lawns from which the dandelions cheer me on as they rise up in the lawn mower’s wake. The rabbits, squirrels, groundhogs, and birds long ago found peace in being city-dwellers living along this well-traveled path. My favorites among nature’s local inhabitants are the long lines of sassy geese that bring rush hour traffic to a screeching halt. I laugh out loud as they take their goosy time high-stepping across all four lanes. Yesterday, as I circled the large empty parking lot at the end of the path, empty save for me and a lawn care worker with a noisy leaf blower that is, a hawk swooped down and startled both of us. As the hawk drifted in for a landing, it spread its wings wide showing off its soft feathers of white and tan—a beautiful chalk portrait against a pale blue sky. The large bird came to rest on a rail of the railroad tracks within feet of me and the noisy leaf blower. The hawk looked regal as it perched there. Its appearance was so surprising and beautiful that the lawn care worker turned off his leaf blower, and we both stood there looking at the hawk who was sizing us up. The hawk didn’t seem to be in any hurry as he kept us pinned to the spot with its eyes. Traffic zoomed by behind us and yet, there we stood the three of us. It was the lawn care worker who finally broke the gaze. He didn’t seem able to get back to work with the hawk staring at him, and so he shooed the hawk away and fired up the leaf blower. I marched forward returning to the worn bike path, but the hawk remained with me as my mind’s fresh companion. I wanted to hold on to its beauty, the softness of its feathers, the wonder of its flight, the hope that it stirred in me even as I wondered: what did the hawk see when it looked at me? At the leaf-blowing lawn care worker? What does nature make of man? Did the hawk see beauty too? Was it curious about our lives and where we came from, what we were up to? Where we were going? Did it admire me moving on two feet as much as I admired it moving on wings? Like people, some creatures in nature are timid. They scatter and crawl back into their holes at the sight, sound, or smell of strangers or unexpected sounds. Some prepare to attack. But others, like the regal hawk and the sassy geese, will not be shaken or deterred. They claim their spaces even in the face of leaf blowing machines. They own the road even in the face of speeding two ton vehicles. They do what they do as nature prescribed, strong in their conviction that the rights of nature are ensured. Perhaps that is what there is to admire in God’s creatures, in addition to their beauty. They do not live constricted by worry or self-doubt. They have faith in their instincts. They don’t curse when the shelves are empty. They move on with a simple faith in provision. They don’t calculate every move, anticipate every potential problem; they simply live. A few miles later, I returned home with the hawk’s sudden appearance still on my mind. Alone, I engaged AI with my questions. AI told me that hawks are associated with vision, power, and freedom. They have exceptional eyesight that represents clarity, perspective, and an ability to see the bigger picture. They embody strength and dominance in the animal kingdom symbolizing courage and assertiveness, and freedom to pursue goals without constraints. In many cultures hawks are seen as messengers of spiritual awakening encouraging individuals to trust their instincts and intuition. In different cultures the hawk is a symbol of protection, guidance, power, and freedom. I had no reason to doubt AI. It merely confirmed what I had already felt as the hawk swooped down and settled on the railroad tracks to hold me in its gaze. Perhaps it was no coincidence. The wonder of nature may be that the hawk, with its heavenly instincts, came looking for me.  Outside my window the streetlamp flickers. In rapid-fire succession, it turns on and off, on and off, on and off, unable to commit in a David-and-Goliath match-up with the sun. Though subdued, the waning sun mocks the timid streetlamp daring it to take a stand. The sun has a hard time letting go on a summer’s evening, and so do I. As that giant spotlight dims and the soft aisle lights come on, I linger in the empty theater of the day, the music still playing in my ears. If I dawdle, will there be an encore? As I embrace the peace and the quiet, my mind slowly releases the echoes of the day. For that brief time just before total darkness, I live in the fairy tale world of twilight, a world that gives birth to imagination and sets the stage for dreams. What I most love about a late summer evening is the way it melts into a puddle of sleepy darkness for small, sweaty children exhausted from outdoor play, children who, like the sun, are unable to give up on the day, unwilling to go to bed. Each evening in my twilight zone, I remember the bath times and the bubbles that washed away the sooty remnants of the day and the stretchy, footed pajamas that became the uniform of the night. I relive the hours spent in an old wooden chair, its hypnotic rocking motion closing resistant but tired eyes. I see the tiny mouths quivering, each gentle breath a kiss blown to the departing day. And the scent! Oh, that exquisite, unforgettable scent of a sleeping child! Surely, it is a perfume called Enchantment. In my quiet, empty theater of today, I wonder: where did all of those yesterdays go? They were spent so quickly. Now, in the twilight of my life, those yesterdays return to me in the twilight of the day. Surely, twilight is nature’s master class on letting go. Outside my window the fireflies rejoice as they come out to dance upon the late evening air. The emerging stars wink back. And without a fight, they put the sun to bed.  I am a fool for wonder and for whimsy. Such a combination makes my class of people preschoolers. Weary from news of war and winter winds, I am hungry for my people. I stop at a small park and sit down on a bench. It feels good to be out in the cool, fresh air taking in the sunshine and the sounds of happy children. I soon spot a preschooler wearing a knit cap and matching puffy jacket. He looks like a small, silvery cloud with knees. I study him from afar as he studies the world up close. This tiny scientist trains his eyes on the spot where a bug disappeared into the loose black soil. He crouches down so low that his long dark eyelashes nearly brush the ground. He holds this posture like a statue. My own knees begin to ache. I wonder if the child is breathing. “Where did it go?” Before his mother can answer, the boy spots a bright red cardinal on a stone ledge and chases the bird until it fades into the sky. “Does that bird live in heaven?” And it is on to the next thing. The child starts down a gentle slope toward the slide and swings. Letting the momentum carry him, he falls to the ground and rolls. He squeals with delight further encouraging the invisible force. “The grass is tickling me!” And I laugh as the shared momentum carries me into the moment and tickles me too. Next, the boy busies himself gathering small stones and lining them up on a bench. He talks to himself and to the stones. He gives each one a name. The budding geologist keeps at it until he hears the honk of a goose that has waddled out of a large puddle. The child honks back, and asks his mother, “What did the goose say to me?” He imitates the goosey waddle until he loses sight of the bird in the bright sunshine. I hear him ask, “Why does the sun hurt my eyes?” The child goes from awed silence to incessant chatter, stillness to fast forward, whatever the wonder calls for, his body responds and his eager mind forms a question. He does not fear looking foolish, getting dirty, or running late. Those are the concerns of adults on a schedule who have stricken time to wonder from their personal to-do lists. The boy does not pause to anticipate the dangers—the sting of a bee or the brush of poison ivy against his skin. His mother is there. With her eyes ten steps ahead, her body is one step behind. Like the captain of an ancient seafaring vessel headed for a new world, she is constantly scanning the horizon for dragons and the air waves for the siren’s call. A good parent, she lovingly presses on making the world safe for her child’s wonder. The tot continues to explore and to marvel until both he and his mother are tired. He reaches up for her, and she lifts him into her arms. They go to their car. I give up my front row seat to all of this wonder and go to my car too. I am not tired. I am refreshed. It has been wonderful!
 I see a lawn tractor ahead. The contraption is so loud that it sucks me into its sphere and deafens me to the whooshing sounds of passing highway traffic. Even my own thoughts drown in the cacophony. A spray of dead clippings showers the asphalt walking path. As I step among the grassy remains, I witness a resurrection. One-by-one dandelions spring up in the mower’s wake. They rise tall and regal in this field of stubby grass. Brilliant and moist, their lives are a sharp contrast to the brown and lifeless trimmings that cover my shoes. Like golden-haired ballerinas, the dandelions know just when to bow and when to rise for an encore. I laugh out loud as each milk-filled stem unfurls and reaches toward the sun. This troupe of tiny dancers has outwitted both man and machine. I doubt that these sassy blossoms ever considered succumbing to the executioner’s blade. Dandelions have work to do. They are every man’s flower, a poor man’s medicine, a starving man’s food. Despite war and climate change, the rise and fall of civilizations, dandelions have been going strong for 30 million years. More recently, they immigrated to this country aboard the Mayflower along with our Pilgrim ancestors. While adults may have forgotten the dandelion’s proud heritage and may call the humble bloom a weed or a pest, little children are still capable of awe. They can see the beauty in a simple thing without cataloging its faults. Despite adult efforts to eradicate them, dandelions are loved by children. A child’s love trumps pesticides, and, I believe, turns these flowers into masters of survival. Just the right size for small, chubby hands, dandelions are everywhere and within a child’s reach. These common flowers are not temperamental like orchids or thorny like roses. Generous bouquets can be gathered at no expense and proudly offered to people loved. Small bouquets fill teacups that adorn countertops and kitchen tables. Blossoms are jewels to be woven into crowns and necklaces. Colorful “stews” are concocted inside tents and treehouses. Magic wishes travel on puffs of dandelion seeds. Dandelions are a child’s birthright. They deliver a message of hope that life is abundant, persistent, and renewable. How else could a child survive? All of these thoughts fill my mind as the noise of the lawn tractor fades. Nature is a miracle. How does something so small, so ordinary, contain so much strength, agility, patience, and resilience? It is my turn to bow. I honor the dandelions as I pass. They are the heralds of spring, the rebirth I hungered for during the pandemic winter. The flowers comfort me with their familiarity and remind me that life goes on. In a time of shortages, they reassure me with their effortless abundance. When I die, bury me under a blanket of audacious dandelions gathered by the sweet, chubby hands of true believers. Send me down into the earth to mingle with these enduring roots. |
AuthorLilli-ann Buffin Archives
June 2026
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