I had this little ritual when I lived in Arizona.
Whenever we would have a particularly persistent monsoon storm, I would put my shoes on, and venture out to our balcony to stand to watch the rain.
There was something about those storms that felt somehow romantic. The way the rain fell in a straight vertical line from the sky to the ground. The earthy smell of water splashing against desert dirt. The refreshing feeling of moisture in the ordinarily dry air.
I would almost always be the only one outside for as far as my eyes could see, breathing in and out, leaning my bare arms against a stone banister, watching the continuous wall of rain and the occasional lightening that lit up the sky like a strobe.
Its beauty was stunning.
I have this little ritual now that I live in Pennsylvania.
Whenever we have a particular persistent snowfall, I put my shoes and my coat on, and venture out to my backyard to stand to watch the snow.
There is something about the soft way the snow falls that feels somehow romantic. The way it gathers and muffles any and all sound so that when you step outside, you leave all sights and sounds of life behind. You enter a world of utter and complete stillness.
I am almost always the only one outside for as far as my eyes can see, breathing in the dry, cold air and sending it back out in puffs of white. I study the yellow windows that hint at the warmth found inside and the way the light from each lamppost casts long shadows across pristine blankets of snow.
Its beauty is stunning.