Why Some of Us Wait for Thunderstorms While Everyone Else Runs Inside

Some people see black clouds gathering and begin to collect the washing from the line. I don’t. I grab my camera.

The first low growl of thunder does not send me running for shelter. It makes me look towards the horizon. I want to know where the storm is, which direction it is travelling and whether there is enough time to reach somewhere with a clear view before the sky opens.

Sunshine has never had the same effect on me.

A fine day is pleasant enough. It is useful. Lawns can be mown, boats launched, and lunches arranged beneath outdoor umbrellas. Sunshine is nice.

A thunderstorm arrives without an invitation.

It darkens the room. It rattles the windows. It interrupts conversations and makes strangers look towards the same patch of sky. It has no interest in anyone’s plans, feelings or freshly washed car.

That may be part of its attraction.

A storm does not pretend to be harmless.

The Sky Finally Tells the Truth

Most days disguise themselves as ordinary.

The morning pops. People go to work. Traffic moves. Coffee is poured. Couples kiss each other goodbye.

Everything appears nice.

Nice, it may not be.

A bright sky can hang over a household full of resentment. Sunlight can pour through the windows of a room where two people have not touched one another in months. A perfect afternoon can illuminate a lie just as easily as it illuminates anything else.

Weather does not care about these contradictions.

People do.

We have learned to present ourselves as calm when we are furious, satisfied when we are starving and committed when our thoughts have already wandered elsewhere. We tidy ourselves before stepping outside. We straighten our collars, soften our voices and hide whatever has begun scratching at the inside of us.

A thunderstorm does none of that.

When pressure builds, the sky changes.

Clouds swell. The air thickens. Light disappears. The tension becomes visible before the first strike arrives.

There is something refreshing about that kind of honesty.

The sky does not say it is fine when it clearly is not.

The Waiting Is Often Better Than the Storm

A storm is usually felt before it reaches you.

The breeze changes first. Leaves turn. Birds become quiet. The light takes on a colour that does not belong to any ordinary part of the day.

Then comes the waiting.

That is when I begin watching weather maps, checking radar images and looking for a place to set up the camera. A storm ten kilometres away might be perfect. A storm directly overhead is usually wet, noisy and photographically useless.

Distance matters.

Far enough away, chaos becomes beautiful.

Lightning crawls between clouds or strikes the ground in a clean white line. Thunder follows several seconds later. The delay tells you how far away the danger is, but it also creates suspense. Light first. Consequence second.

It resembles the way many disasters begin.

There is a signal, then a pause.

A look held too long. A message left open. A key placed on the wrong table. A name spoken in sleep.

Nothing has happened yet.

But something has started.

Perhaps that is why I enjoy photographing storms. The photograph captures the moment before consequence. It freezes the evidence while leaving the damage outside the frame.

The viewer sees the lightning.

They do not see what it hits.

Safe Chaos Is Still Chaos

People often enjoy storms from inside a secure house.

They make tea. They turn off the lights. They stand at a window and watch the rain slide down the glass. The storm becomes entertainment because the walls create a boundary between the watcher and the weather.

From that position, chaos feels controlled.

It can be enjoyed because it belongs to somebody else.

The power may fail. A branch may fall. Somewhere, a roof may lift, or a tree may split. But inside the room, wrapped in a blanket with a warm drink, the observer experiences danger in a carefully measured dose.

That is one explanation for our fascination with dark things.

We like to approach the edge without stepping over it.

Crime novels, psychological thrillers and frightening films offer the same arrangement. Violence occurs, but not to us. Betrayal unfolds in another marriage. The killer enters another house. Someone else hears the footsteps in the hallway.

We are close enough to feel something and distant enough to remain safe.

At least, that is what we tell ourselves.

A storm watched through the glass remains outside until the glass breaks.

Some People Become Restless in Calm Weather

There are those who find peace comforting.

Others find it suspicious.

Nothing is wrong, and that becomes the problem.

The relationship is stable. The street is quiet. The workplace is uneventful. Days arrive in a predictable order, and nothing threatens to disturb them.

For some people, this is happiness.

For others, it feels like the long silence before thunder.

They begin searching for movement. They test boundaries, provoke reactions or revisit old grievances. They open conversations that were better left closed. Peace makes them uncomfortable because peace leaves them alone with themselves.

A storm solves that.

It gives the mind somewhere else to look.

The windows shake. Rain strikes the roof. Lightning turns the garden white for a fraction of a second. Whatever was hiding inside the room becomes less important than what is happening outside it.

But perhaps the attraction is not always escape.

Perhaps some people simply recognise the storm.

Not because their childhood was necessarily turbulent or their nervous system was shaped by emotional instability. That explanation is tidy, fashionable and difficult to prove.

The darker possibility is simpler.

Some people like storms because storms resemble them.

There Is Power in Watching Something Break

Lightning photography requires patience.

Hours may pass without a useful strike. Rain obscures the horizon. The storm changes direction. Batteries flatten. The camera lens gathers moisture. A promising cloud formation drifts away and dissolves without producing anything worth keeping.

Then the sky tears open.

For a fraction of a second, the night becomes brighter than day.

Every tree, roofline and distant hill appears with unnatural clarity. Shadows vanish. The world is exposed.

Then darkness returns.

That moment is what I wait for.

It is not only the shape of the lightning that interests me. It is the violence of the revelation. An ordinary landscape becomes something else beneath it. The familiar is stripped of softness. Every hard edge is revealed.

A storm does not create those objects.

It only shows them differently.

People can be like that too.

Pressure does not always create cruelty, jealousy, obsession or resentment. Sometimes pressure simply illuminates what was already there.

A person may behave generously while life is comfortable. A husband may appear loyal while temptation remains distant. A wife may seem content while no one asks what she truly wants.

Then pressure builds.

Something flashes.

For one brief moment, the person is seen clearly.

Afterwards, everyone tries to return to darkness.

Sunshine Encourages Performance

Fine weather comes with instructions.

Go outside. Be active. Meet friends. Take photographs of smiling people beside blue water. Make use of the day.

There is an expectation of happiness attached to sunshine. If the sky is bright, we are supposed to brighten with it.

Storms demand nothing of the sort.

No one questions a dark mood while thunder is rolling. No one expects cheerfulness beneath a black sky. The weather grants permission to withdraw, watch and think.

For writers, that can be useful.

Dark weather narrows the world. The room becomes smaller. The light fades. Familiar objects turn into shapes at the edge of vision. Imagination fills whatever can no longer be seen.

That is where sinister thoughts thrive.

Not necessarily murderous thoughts. Darkness does not automatically turn a person into a monster.

It merely allows the monster to speak without raising its voice.

The cheerful world is loud. It distracts us with appointments, sunlight and movement. Darkness removes those things one by one.

Eventually, all that remains is the weather outside and the voice within.

Most people hope that the voice says nothing alarming.

What Are We Really Waiting For?

When I drive out with a camera and tripod, I tell myself I am hunting lightning.

That is true.

I study the storm, choose a foreground and wait for a strike to complete the picture. The process is as technical as it is emotional. Aperture, focus, exposure and timing still matter. A dramatic sky does not excuse a poor photograph.

But there is another part to it.

I am waiting for the ordinary world to change.

A road I have driven many times becomes unfamiliar beneath a storm. A paddock, beach, or suburban street takes on a menacing air. Darkness collects in places where daylight insists nothing could be hiding.

The transformation is temporary, but it feels revealing.

The landscape has not become dangerous because the sun disappeared. Its dangers were already present. The storm merely removed the comforting light that allowed us to ignore them.

Perhaps people are no different.

We trust daylight versions of them.

We accept the smile, the routine, the explanation and the well-rehearsed affection. We assume stability because instability has not yet made itself known.

Then the pressure shifts.

The air becomes still.

Something in them begins to gather.

The Storm Inside SEETHINGS

Thunderstorms and lightning found their way into my novel SEETHINGS because they belong there.

The story is filled with people who appear ordinary when viewed in the right light. They maintain relationships, make plans and move through familiar places. From a distance, their lives seem stable.

Closer inspection reveals pressure.

Desire has gone unanswered. Resentment has been contained rather than resolved. Intimacy has thinned. Secrets wait for the correct conditions.

Mitchell Felding photographs lightning, but the storms are more than scenery to him. They reflect the darkness gathering inside. His camera gives him a reason to stand close to danger and call himself an observer.

That distinction becomes increasingly difficult to maintain.

Is he documenting the storm, or waiting for it to release him?

That question sits beneath much of SEETHINGS. Civilised people rely on routines, relationships and consequences to keep their darker impulses contained. We like to believe those restraints define us.

They may only restrain us.

A thunderstorm makes no promise to remain in the clouds. Eventually, something reaches the ground.

Perhaps that is why I continue to watch them.

It is not because the noise comforts me or because chaos feels like home. It is because storms demonstrate what pressure can do when it has nowhere else to go.

The sky darkens.

The tension rises.

For a moment, everything becomes perfectly clear.

Then something is struck.

–Michael (Dark Fiction. Author of SEETHINGS (the first book), free for a limited time)