My child,
Do not fear the thunderstorm.
Do not swat at the bugs like your mother,
Or retreat indoors like your father.
No, my child.
Sit outside for every summer thunderstorm, 
Let the drops touch only your toes,
Then the tops of your feet,
Then your ankles,
Slowly immerse yourself into the whipping winds
Until you are surrounded by it,
Until you are a part of it.
My child, 
Scream into the howling winds,
Change the pitch at which the thunder roars.
Make the lightning move around you.

When autumn comes, do the same.
But this time, you must be still.
There will be days, my child, 
When all you can do is watch the storm.
Listen to the crickets,
Sing the songs I taught you in spring softly.
Recite poetry to the frogs,
Take pictures with your mind.
There will be days when you may still splash in the water,
Autumn is a time for learning the patterns of the wind,
And one cannot do that without standing amongst them.
But tether yourself, my child.

In winter, watch the rain.
Make no sound.
Reflect upon the silent loud of the earth around you.
And in the last storm of the year, my child.
Stand with your arms outstretched, 
Embrace the downpour.
And when the last winter storm reaches it's peak,
My child,
Dance.