lightning stories

I’m terrified of lightning. When I see it, no matter how distant, I relive the horror of that summer day, standing snow drenched, and blind atop the tallest mountain ridge in the US. I see the towering cliff of rocks that we were in no way prepared to attempt, the poorly marked trail that had taken us to this point; but most vividly, I see the crack of brilliant lightning cloaked in a deafening roar drowning my senses.

I noted the possibility of a phobia soon after we were returned to safety. That evening, my uncle Mike bought supplies to give me a nice salt bath to sooth my bruised and bloodied legs. After I had devoured two jars of pickles, a block of cheese, a chocolate cake, and a loaf of bread, I happily acquiesced to his offer. I walked through one of the crystal chambers to find the bathtub laden with hundreds of lit candles, soft new age music droning in the background. It wasn’t long into my relaxation that the music changed to a storm scene complete with crashing lighting strikes. I felt that same dread wash over me as I leaped my torn muscles out of the tub to kill that music.

In April, an old high school friend came to visit. We stayed in Paris for a few nights and then headed south to Aix-en-Provence for a break from the city. A storm arose as we were touring the foothills of the Alps en velo. I tried to stay calm at first but the terror returned quickly and by the third lightning strike I was biking fast to the closest door, a bewildered Laura forced to follow. A young man answered the door and I said in panicky french « si vous plait monsieur, j’ai vraiment peur de coups de foudres. Ca vous derange trop de nous herbeger pendant le tempet ? » He welcomed us kindly and explained to me that actually I was afraid of des eclaires (lightning), not des coups de foudres (loves at first sight). Oh how I am used to sounding ridiculous!
We were quickly introduced to the grand piano and then to the man’s aging father, a retired diplomat and musician. To the father’s delight, Laura began deftly playing an old piece of music left on the stand from before the arthritis had taken his hands. Our host wasted no time in calling his cousins and friends, and before long, we had ourselves quite a charming little soirée.


Since then I have had two other lightning experience, once in the mountains just last week, once in the city about a month ago. Neither time was I in danger, and I knew that in my head. Yet the feeling of panic was as strong as ever. It has been close to a year now; I don’t think this will fade.

i took a train to basque country

I spent the last three days in the heart of pays Basque. We fell asleep each night to fire lit conversations and the soft whisper of an old violin. We awoke each morning to the roar of rough mountain winds filled with the energy of a people and the strength of the high skies. I left my tent early every day to practiced yoga on a large rock, a few paces away from infinitum. And to think on Rodin, whom I have been reading with enthusiasm ever since my most recent sojourn to those enchanting gardens sprinkled with his genius. Rodin who tells us in his Reflections sur La Beauté that

Une statue parfaite doit pouvoir rouler du haut d’une montagne, et ce qu’elle perd en route n’est que superflu



I thought on this while staring down into that cavernous rock so imposing in its mass. The test of true art, if we are to take antiquity as our model. And what about for the body? Staring out into that abyss, wondering where a fall like that would leave me, in what state. But we are accustomed to resisting these temptations.


That afternoon the five of us headed down from the Pyrenees into the valley to eat dinner with the father of jean paul, the leader of our group. The father had prepared a lovely dinner of fresh melons, steamed vegetables, and ribs. We ate outside enjoying the surrounding peaks and laughing at my difficulty in using a knife and fork to eat a melon (uncivilized Americans !), chatting in general about the Basque people and their language. The father swearing to me that in fact it was the Basque People, not Christopher Columbus, who discovered the New World. And we can prove this because of the linguistic relationships between the Basque language and those of the American natives. I tried to disagree, but no one takes you seriously when you speak a heavily accented French and occasionally misplace your indirect pronouns. And so the dinner went on, my group being convinced by the father and me resigning my position. Vive le Pays Basque!