Storm bathing – It just might keep the munchkins and flying monkeys away

My digs — screen porch with a panoramic view of the forest.

A good night’s sleep doesn’t necessarily involve sleep. Case in point, last night.

Lately I’ve been sleeping on the screen porch — on a cot I bought for that purpose. I paid more for it than I care to admit but it’s been worth every penny. The cot cradles me in my sleeping bag and has pretty much eliminated tossing and turning. A far cry from the football field-size bed a room away, where I can sprawl all night. And usually wake up feeling drained. Apparently, sprawling is great exercise. But not very restful.

I went to bed last night knowing what lay ahead — a severe thunderstorm with strong winds. There was a good chance I’d lie down in Kansas (or Ohio in this case) and wake up in the Land of Oz, surrounded by munchkins and flying monkeys. Which frequently happened to me in the ’60s. But for different reasons.

I hunkered down in my sleeping bag and no sooner closed my eyes when the wind began to howl. Not the usual howling. Howls like I’ve never heard. Howls like the muffled whistle of an approaching locomotive. Howls that caused me to question my sanity.

“Why are you STILL out here on this porch?” asked one of the voices in my head.

Another voice — one that advocates risky behavior — responded, “Stay out here. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“You could die,” the rational voice in my head responded.

Not much of an argument considering that I’m well into my 70s and have lived a full life. Not bad considering I hadn’t expected to make it past 40.

“If you die, you die,” my irresponsible voice said.

So I resigned myself to waking up in the Land of Oz, up to my waist in munchkins and dodging flying monkey poo.

The rain pelted the deck outside, nearly drowning out the howl of the wind. The cool spring air felt soothing on my face, and the rain rousted outdoor smells — the nearby white pines, understory flora, and moist earth.

I closed my eyes. I’d nearly drifted off to sleep when a swirling gust of wind swept across the screen porch. A blanket I’d draped over a clothesline near the foot of the cot whipped and twisted violently yet miraculously stayed on the line. Dust bunnies stampeded across the floor.

Fear gave way to exhilaration. The energy of the wind and the misty spray of rain on my face made my heart race. That combined with lightning flashes awakened something deep inside me. I felt giddy. I felt alive!

The howl of the wind brought to mind the wailing of coyotes — a chorus of modulating volume and pitch coming from every which way. Another gust swirled through the screen porch. A flash of lightning nearly blinded me.

I closed my eyes, but the voices in my head finally agreed on one thing: I wouldn’t be falling asleep anytime soon. Not just because of the storm itself, but because I had become one with it.

It’s hard to explain, but it felt very much like forest bathing, which involves wandering around in the woods and immersing yourself in the experience till you feel at one with nature. Which you rightfully are. People foolishly believe in what I call “human exceptionalism,” that we’re somehow superior beings. We’re not.

We’ve proven that many times over, to the point that we’ve found ourselves on the brink of delivering a death blow to Mother Nature.

Not that this is how it will play out. We will have destroyed ourselves and all that is profound and beautiful — the very things that sustain life. But, after we’re dead and gone, nature will recover.

Musician and composer Frank Zappa said it best in his song appropriately titled “Dumb All Over.”

“It won't blow up and disappear. It'll just look ugly for a thousand years...”

That’s a conservative estimate. But, in the grand scheme of things, a few millennia or even a million years is a blink of an eye.

No sense losing sleep over it. I’m resigned to enjoying what’s left of nature and being one with it, as I was last night, being in synch with the storm.

I closed my eyes and resigned myself to drifting off to sleep with the passing of the storm — no matter how long it took.

I awakened unrevived but certainly renewed. And not a munchkin or flying monkey in sight.

This originally was published as a Gannett column, which ran in the Ashland Times-Gazette and possibly elsewhere.