Candlelight

A fabulous thunderstorm, or tormenta, passed over Asunción last night, one reminiscent of the one that welcomed me in April. The instant it approached the lights went out; the winds seemed to threaten the very structure in which I sat. The thunder in the April storm was unlike anything I had ever heard, resembling an earthquake in the way it shook my body while I was lying in bed. The lightning strikes must have been less than one mile away to carry powerful thunder. At least since México I’ve enjoyed thunder and rainstorms; I remember how the rain would flood the planta baja, covering the tile floors without causing alarm.

Writing by candlelight invoked a feeling of communion with those who had no option for so many decades. It made me realize how we can be so abusive of proper sleep habits in the modern age, and stay awake working or watching television with appliances that run on fossil fuels. There was not much to do without electricity, and I had even booted up the computer just as the lights went out. Apparently someone had other plans for my late evening, and certainly I am fine with a bit of writing and an hour of yoga listening to the sounds of nature blasting the windows and roof of the casita.

I have an espresso cup that I drink wine from in my room; it makes the bottle last longer and the sips more sincere. After the storm passes all is much calmer. Sounds begin outside—people are talking about downed branches in the courtyard next door, cars are passing in the street and the motos have restarted their unmufflered migrations. The thunder is now heard far off, and rain drips outside the windows; candlelight continues to flicker throughout my comfortable space.