Thunderstorms & Front Porches

I'm a pretty nostalgia-ridden person. I love the way certain things bring you back to a previous place in your mind. The smell of snow in the atmosphere evokes Christmas and all it encompasses, the feel of low sunlight and Andrea Bocelli brings me back to the summer I was ten, and anytime it storms in the summer, I'm with my grandfather on the front porch at my grandparents' house.

The house is one of those standard older homes, and I spent so much of my childhood there that it's inextricable from my memories. The first poem I ever had published was one I wrote about a tree in the backyard that was actually four trees woven into one, with a perfect spot in the middle for my tiny being to squeeze in to write and daydream. The bush in the front yard with yellow flowers we would pick and throw into jars of water and call it perfume (oh, dear), and the cigar tree in the back yard with the huge leaves we used to think we could string together and make a "flying machine" with to take us around the world. My cousins, my sister, and I were quite characters.

My favorite memory, though was sitting on the porch in those hot hazy summer days and talking to my grandfather, my Puppa. The porch was brick, the awning was burgundy, and the creaking porch swing was one of those green and yellow vinyl numbers from the 1970s, host to numerous behinds, porch-sleepers, and a six-year-old version of me who ate too much pasta and then rocked there with my head in my grandmother's lap until I acquainted that pasta with my pink hi-top Converse.

He was off-the-boat Italian at 13. He fought in World War II. I never heard him say a bad word about anyone. He would sit there, in his chair on the porch, staring straight ahead, hazel eyes, white hair combed back and softly curling, and those blue pants everyone over age 70 owns. Sometimes we would just sit in silence, which was always comfortable. He was a man of few words, but sometimes he would break me out of my reverie to talk.

"What are you thinking about? You always look like you're thinking about something," he said to me once. Perhaps I got that from him.

He shared stories of WWII and life on his little farm in Potenza. He told me about what it was like coming here. We talked about my parents splitting up, and about school, and my dreams to be a writer or a musician someday. Often, my sister and my mum joined us. Nunna would come out and join us too, after the three of them finished their post-dinner cowboy coffee in the old Sands mugs. Occasionally, my cousins would come sit with us too, but I secretly liked best when it was just the two of us. I loved the stories. I loved the companionable silence, or the laughter we'd share watching the neighborhood and all its movements, with the long, lonely train whistle as the soundtrack-- these moments the pulse of my otherwise awkward childhood years, all hair and gangly limbs.

When it would storm, we would sit there and watch the lightening crash and the rain pour, rolling in heavy drops off the edges of the scalloped awning. It was terrifying and awesome at the same time to be so close to something so dangerous. God's bowling, the adults would say, which made it less frightening somehow.

Perhaps this is why I still have such an affinity for people's front porches-- less common these days. This could be why I am drawn to the way the lightening dances majestically across the sky, even as the thunder makes me leap out of my skin. All during June, the heaviest month of storms in a Pittsburgh year, I think of my Puppa and miss him fiercely. When I see the thunder rolling in and I detect that smell on the breeze, the one that means the skies darken to a grey-green and the rain lets go, I think of him and I feel close to him again.

Love and Light

Over the last few days, listening to the news has been a rather frightening activity, leading many people (including myself) to anxious feelings, wandering thoughts, and horrific dreams. It's terrifying to think that humanity can be so cruel, and that so many of us are at the mercy of so few power-hungry leaders who are pretty detached from reality. These leaders, who make calls to drop chemical or nuclear attacks on PEOPLE, make decisions which impact us overall.

It makes things seem pretty bleak.

My post for this week, then, is written with the purpose of spreading love and light. I seek to draw your attention to the good and the positive-- hence The Bright Side-- and times like these are no exception.

It's easy when things seem to be going really well to forget anything evil in the world, just as it is difficult to remember the beauty and love in the world during times like this.

Look around-- God has created a wonderful world for us, complete with human beings who seek, in their own way, to spread this message of peace and love and beauty. I know so many people personally who put so much of themselves into everything they do-- from my mum, who texts me every morning to say hello and give me a weather update, to my girlfriend who makes food infused with the thought and purpose and tenderness, to any of my friends-- most of whom are teachers or nurses-- who pour themselves into their work every day with the simple purpose of making a difference.

The music we listen to, the books we read, the food we eat, the houses we live in, even the pictures you like by some random amateur blogger/photographer on Instagram... all of these are done with passion and purpose and happiness. To me, this is en route to spreading love and light to others.

Any thing that you do that makes you happy, that makes someone happy, that is done with goodness and pride and thoughtfulness, is your way of making a difference, of ensuring that NO ONE has power over your life but you. YOU make your path, you have the power over your life and what happens to you. If enough of us join together with this same notion in mind, and try to spread our love and our light, then we will be bigger and more powerful and beautiful and fearsome than any figures of "power" that we see in our tragic world today.

I have a friend, Julie, who is a fellow English teacher. In typical nerd fashion, we were discussing poetry-- because why not?-- and sharing some of our favorites. William Ernest Henley's "Invictus" came up, and the whole poem is so empowering, but the last stanza in particular stands out in support of exactly what I'm trying to convey today: "It matters not how strait the gate/How charged with punishments the scroll/I am the master of my fate/I am the captain of my soul."