When we did our highs and lows during our virtual meeting this morning, one of my students listed Wednesday nights' storm as their low. A few comments later, another child listed the same storm as their high. It's interesting how two different people can experience the same event and perceive it so differently.

I never posted a blog that night because we lost internet and power. But here's what I started to write:

It's hard to blog when you're listening to hail hitting the windows and waiting for the power to go out. I just did a quick dash outside to bring in the deck cushions and lighter furniture. They're currently drying on the kitchen floor, being closely inspected by the bigger cat, the one who isn't hiding under my bed.

The microwave has beeped at me twice and the lights keep flickering, but it sounds like the heaviest part of the storm has moved on. The leaves are settling in puddles on the ground and the sky's grumbles are becoming less frequent.

I love storms – When nature reminds us of how beautiful and powerful it is.

In Africa, storms would sweep in quickly. The sky would grow dark and the rain thundered down loudly on the tin roofs. The storms never lasted long, but all conversations and interactions stopped – there was no way to make yourself heard over the falling rain. I suppose now, we'd just text.

I admit, I've become quite dependent upon power and technology.

We lost power a lot back then, and it never really bothered me. I can remember many evenings in the dorm when we sat down together at long tables doing homework together by candlelight or gas lights. It became a community-building break from the normal routine.

It was almost as good as the feeling you'd get when you woke up to discover it was a snow day! Now that we've discovered and improved remote teaching, that feeling may become a thing of the past.

This year's storms have all been more isolating than the ones I remember from my childhood. Instead of forcing us to gather together in a common area, the storms of 2020 are cutting us off. We're quarantining in our separate spaces, and when we lose power, we lose our main method of connection and distraction. We're kept apart by distance, by fear, by masks, by protocols. We're on the lookout for the next catastrophe instead of focusing on the silver linings. Because there are always silver linings. You just have to seek them out, taking your eyes off the wind and hail to see the possible benefit.

Did that second child love the storm because they focused on the benefits while the other saw only the storm? Or did they feel more secure overall so that any bump in the road is less frightening?

I'm sure there are many factors that work together to make us more apt to be frightened or invigorated when the power goes out. But I'm also sure that to some extent, we can choose how we respond to the storms and bumpy roads in life.

I hope you choose gratitude. I hope you choose to see the fun of gathering around the candle in the dark. I hope you choose Hope.