Monday night we had a storm. It was a doozy. The lightning lit up the sky, the hail pummelled my poor little roof, the rain came down in sheets, the sirens wailed. It was the kind of storm that I imagine will herald the end of the world. The whole house shook and sighed and after it had cleared, I walked around the house in the dark, looking for the damage that couldn't wait until morning. Finding none that dire, I finally headed (damp and chilled) to bed.
The worst of the storm was over, but it rained all night, coming in waves, harder rain fading to drizzle and back to the big fat drops that make you cold even inside.
Tuesday morning, I rose, showered, dressed and took a deep breath. I would have to go outside and do a more intensive evaluation of the damage. Starting at the front door, I turned right and began walking around the house. There was not much new, which is not to say that there wasn't much. The gutter that's draining into the wrong spot had caused a bit of a mess... There was more soffet missing from that spot with all the missing soffet. Yada, yada, around the house I walked, hoping and praying that there was nothing serious. Rounding the last corner, I found this:
I have had these irises for years, but never got one to bloom. And there, after the storm, was my payoff, my very favorite flower on earth, open and gaping and trembling under the weight of the water. Not bowed or broken by the high wind, but encouraged by it.
It occurred to me that the most beautiful sights are always right after the storm. Whether it's because truly lovely things happen then or because we are most open to beauty after the fear and trepidation that thunder leaves behind, I don't suppose I'll ever know.
Sometimes, a storm is needed, to soak the roots or unearth the root or whatever. Sometimes you don't know what you've got until after the storm.