"Rainy Garden Days" (Text & Image Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
“Be the lightning in a thunderstorm. Fierce, bright, and unforgettable.”
~Unknown
At four o’clock this morning, the sky spoke.
Not gently. Not with a distant murmur on the horizon or a soft patter against the roof. A single, tremendous clap of thunder shattered the silence and shook the wee cottage awake. One moment there was sleep, deep and dream-filled; the next, there was that ancient voice rolling through the darkness, reminding me that there are forces in this world far older and larger than my own small concerns.
The weather forecast had promised storms later in the day. Nature, however, often keeps its own schedule.
For a few moments I lay beneath the covers listening. Rain swept across the roof. Another rumble moved through the clouds. Lightning flickered beyond the curtains. And there, tucked safely inside, I felt that curious mixture of vulnerability and comfort that only a nighttime storm can bring.
There is something primal about thunder in the dark.
During the day, storms compete with traffic, conversations, errands, and distractions. At night, they arrive on an empty stage. The sleeping world falls silent, and thunder becomes the only voice. Rain becomes the only song.
Ancient peoples understood this feeling. The Romans believed that thunder after sunset belonged not to Jupiter, lord of the daylight sky, but to Summanus, the mysterious god of nocturnal storms and hidden realms. Many Indigenous traditions tell of the Thunderbird, a powerful spirit whose wings create thunder and whose presence brings both protection and renewal. In old Slavic folklore, storm-filled nights were sometimes viewed as moments when the veil between worlds grew thin and dreams carried unusual significance.
Whether we understand these stories as mythology or metaphor, they all point toward the same truth: storms have always awakened something deep within us.
Perhaps it is because they mirror our own lives.
We all experience seasons when emotions gather like dark clouds. Worries accumulate. Grief lingers. Old disappointments drift through our thoughts. We try to carry them quietly, but eventually something must break. Something must rain. Something must release.
The storm knows this.
Thunder is not destruction alone. It is release. Rain is not merely disruption. It is renewal.
And when the storm has spent itself, the world often emerges cleaner than before.
This morning, as I sit at my desk with a fresh mug of coffee, the violence of the storm has passed. Outside my window, only a steady drizzle remains. The garden glistens beneath a gray sky. The iris blossoms, their purple petals jeweled with raindrops, seem less like flowers and more like small pieces of dawn waiting patiently for the sun.
Inside, a lamp casts a warm pool of light across the room. Classical music drifts softly through the cottage.
The coffee tastes especially good.
The world feels hushed.
And perhaps that is one of the gifts of a night storm.
It strips away the noise of yesterday. It washes the air. It reminds us that turmoil is often temporary and that peace frequently arrives not by avoiding the storm but by allowing it to pass through.
That thought brings me to words from Dr. Wayne Dyer:
“When you are practicing kindness, peace shows up right on schedule. When you are at peace with yourself and your world, you know that you are a worthy recipient of all that comes your way. ... Make it your own special mission to be kind to others each day at least once and to extend the same privilege to yourself as much as possible.”
Perhaps kindness is its own kind of weather.
Not dramatic like thunder. Not brilliant like lightning. More like the gentle rain that follows—the quiet grace that nourishes the world after the skies have finished shouting.
Today may bring more storms. The forecast suggests it might. Some may arrive in clouds and lightning.
Others may appear in the ordinary challenges of daily life.
Yet this morning offers a gentle reminder: storms do not last forever.
The thunder moves on.
The rain softens.
The dawn arrives.
And in the quiet that follows, we are given another opportunity to be kind, to trust, to begin again.
So on this dark, drizzly morning, with classical music playing softly and another cup of coffee waiting nearby, I find myself grateful for the storm that woke me.
Not because it disturbed my sleep.
But because it reminded me that even the fiercest nights eventually give way to a gentler sky. And sometimes, in the stillness that follows, peace shows up right on schedule.
~Wylddane
~Unknown
At four o’clock this morning, the sky spoke.
Not gently. Not with a distant murmur on the horizon or a soft patter against the roof. A single, tremendous clap of thunder shattered the silence and shook the wee cottage awake. One moment there was sleep, deep and dream-filled; the next, there was that ancient voice rolling through the darkness, reminding me that there are forces in this world far older and larger than my own small concerns.
The weather forecast had promised storms later in the day. Nature, however, often keeps its own schedule.
For a few moments I lay beneath the covers listening. Rain swept across the roof. Another rumble moved through the clouds. Lightning flickered beyond the curtains. And there, tucked safely inside, I felt that curious mixture of vulnerability and comfort that only a nighttime storm can bring.
There is something primal about thunder in the dark.
During the day, storms compete with traffic, conversations, errands, and distractions. At night, they arrive on an empty stage. The sleeping world falls silent, and thunder becomes the only voice. Rain becomes the only song.
Ancient peoples understood this feeling. The Romans believed that thunder after sunset belonged not to Jupiter, lord of the daylight sky, but to Summanus, the mysterious god of nocturnal storms and hidden realms. Many Indigenous traditions tell of the Thunderbird, a powerful spirit whose wings create thunder and whose presence brings both protection and renewal. In old Slavic folklore, storm-filled nights were sometimes viewed as moments when the veil between worlds grew thin and dreams carried unusual significance.
Whether we understand these stories as mythology or metaphor, they all point toward the same truth: storms have always awakened something deep within us.
Perhaps it is because they mirror our own lives.
We all experience seasons when emotions gather like dark clouds. Worries accumulate. Grief lingers. Old disappointments drift through our thoughts. We try to carry them quietly, but eventually something must break. Something must rain. Something must release.
The storm knows this.
Thunder is not destruction alone. It is release. Rain is not merely disruption. It is renewal.
And when the storm has spent itself, the world often emerges cleaner than before.
This morning, as I sit at my desk with a fresh mug of coffee, the violence of the storm has passed. Outside my window, only a steady drizzle remains. The garden glistens beneath a gray sky. The iris blossoms, their purple petals jeweled with raindrops, seem less like flowers and more like small pieces of dawn waiting patiently for the sun.
Inside, a lamp casts a warm pool of light across the room. Classical music drifts softly through the cottage.
The coffee tastes especially good.
The world feels hushed.
And perhaps that is one of the gifts of a night storm.
It strips away the noise of yesterday. It washes the air. It reminds us that turmoil is often temporary and that peace frequently arrives not by avoiding the storm but by allowing it to pass through.
That thought brings me to words from Dr. Wayne Dyer:
“When you are practicing kindness, peace shows up right on schedule. When you are at peace with yourself and your world, you know that you are a worthy recipient of all that comes your way. ... Make it your own special mission to be kind to others each day at least once and to extend the same privilege to yourself as much as possible.”
Perhaps kindness is its own kind of weather.
Not dramatic like thunder. Not brilliant like lightning. More like the gentle rain that follows—the quiet grace that nourishes the world after the skies have finished shouting.
Today may bring more storms. The forecast suggests it might. Some may arrive in clouds and lightning.
Others may appear in the ordinary challenges of daily life.
Yet this morning offers a gentle reminder: storms do not last forever.
The thunder moves on.
The rain softens.
The dawn arrives.
And in the quiet that follows, we are given another opportunity to be kind, to trust, to begin again.
So on this dark, drizzly morning, with classical music playing softly and another cup of coffee waiting nearby, I find myself grateful for the storm that woke me.
Not because it disturbed my sleep.
But because it reminded me that even the fiercest nights eventually give way to a gentler sky. And sometimes, in the stillness that follows, peace shows up right on schedule.
~Wylddane
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