Word Number 1: Chrysalism

Part 1: Between Living and Dreaming

Seeing the World as it is, and as the World as it could be

Definition

n. the amniotic tranquility of being indoors during a thunderstorm.

Latin chrysalis, the pupa of a butterfly. Pronounced “kris-uh-liz-uhm.”

"The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows” by John Koenig

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Chrysalism, the word invokes a sense of being within, protected, safe. Being from California I have not experienced many thunderstorms, let alone a “real” storm like the ones they have in the Midwest, regardless I know exactly what this feeling is but still don’t feel my own experience can do this word justice. Instead, I want to paint chrysalism from my partners point of view, who spent the first 20 years of his life in Florida, this is just one of the many thunderstorms he experienced during the heart of summer.

The smell of salt, you can taste it on your tongue as a storm approaches. The wind picks up unexpectedly, gusting out of nowhere as the air becomes thick and sticky, carried for miles across the sea. I watch as the palm trees begin to rustle, dancing together outside my window, never in sync. The clouds are still a ways off yet, puffy and white they give the illusion of friendliness, but I know better. Almost everyday in Florida a thunderstorm comes, sometimes out of nowhere, mushroom clouds popping up and growing fast as fungi tend to do. Clouds go from white to ashy grey and then as dark as charcoal. It's not uncommon for large storms to completely block out the daylight, so thick even the almighty sun is overpowered, becoming dark so fast it’s as if it was blown out like a candle.

For this particular storm I am sitting in the living room with my parents, they own a small but cozy house, one that shakes when the wind comes, a nuisance I never actually minded. Tropical plants of all varieties hang from tables and shelves, trailing their shiny green leaves down the sides of the wood. My dad, once a fire chief, now retired has his various challenge coins lined up next to the tv which is on, but quiet, the voices barely intelligible but still emitting a soft yellow glow. My parents are both sitting in their large brown leather recliners, I between them on the couch and we are silent. The radio scanner is on, as it always it, a radio my dad has listened to ever since I can remember. I don’t focus on the words; I have heard them so often they have become a part of the background noise of the house. Suddenly there is a flash and the room lights up, I count the seconds, 1, 2, 3, 4, then the unmistakable rumble of thunder, a large angry lion in the distance. “This is going to be a good storm” I think to myself. The scanner drones on, another CRACK and FLASH, 1, 2, 3. GRRRRR. Closer this time. Then comes the rain, I hear it on the roof before seeing it, steady at first but quickly drowning out the sound of the scanner. CRACK! FLASH, CRACK! FLASH, 1, 2, GRRRR. Closer still. I can see the rain now. Mixing with the wind each droplet is no longer separate, sheets of rain begin pouring down, moving diagonal to me. The trees have given up dancing instead throwing up their arms to enjoy the ride. CRACK! FLASH, 1, GRRRRR. Usually the storms don’t come this close to the house, but I am not afraid, instead I move to open the door, seeing it through glass is no longer enough. I taste the salt immediately as the air hits my face, my parents make their way behind me and together we watch and inhale the heavy air. CRACK! FLASH, GRRRRRR. The storm is over us now. Lightning comes more often, lighting up the sky as well as our faces. It is dark, the sun completely obscured by the thickness of the clouds, rain streams off the roof, without gutters it chooses its own fate, running as if being chased by the great beast above. CRACK! FLASH. 1, 2, 3. It is moving away again, as quickly as it had come the lion retreats. The trees once again resume their dance, the rain trickles off the roof. CRACK! FLASH. There is no roar. The sun breaks out of her stuffy cage. I close the door and go back to the couch, the scanner drones on.

Yours,

Maxie

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References

Koenig, John. The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows. Simon & Schuster. Kindle Edition.