You feel dried up. As though you are a plant that sat too long in the sun and surrendered its vitality to the solar giant in the sky. A small and shrivelled remnant of what you once were.

You try to find ways to make yourself look and feel alive. You do it by doing empty things and having empty conversations – but all you’re doing is pouring air out of a watering can and hoping it will do the same as water. You can’t deny the colour draining from your blossoms, or the cracking and curling that you’ve begun to see at the edges of your leaves.

You wonder what will happen to you now and then realise, as wilted things often do, that maybe you don’t even care. If your leaves fall in exhaustion to the ground, so what? If they brown and decay and return to dust, what will it matter?

Every now and again, there are drops of water. A kind word, a smile, a job well done, a good idea, a phone call, a hot bath, a good book. Small things that brighten your colour ever so slightly.

But it’s never enough. The colour fades again, the leaves continue to dry. You turn your thoughts to the ground. The soil is dry and grey. All this time, you thought your flowers were the source of your beauty and success, your leaves the source of your strength. But now, as your roots fumble and clamber for something to hold on to, you realise that the source of your life was always in the ground. Your roots try to grab a hold of the life, but they’re too weak. Too dry. And most of all, too shallow.

You whimper with regret and look to the sky. The ferocity of the sun has disappeared behind ominous clouds blackening the sky. A rumble peals out from the heavens. You tremble as the sound echoes through the air.

This is probably the end. Weak roots, faded flowers, leaves that snap under pressure. There is no hope. You bow your head and await your sentence.

You are struck by a raindrop. The blow is stinging and unforgiving. The drops come faster and harder, until all you know is the roar of torrential rain and the crushing weight of it as it falls like a river from the clouds.

You are certain you’ll be swept away. Your weakness deserves nothing less. You know nothing but fear and loneliness, but you endure the relentless assault, waiting and expecting your broken pieces to be caught up into an ceaseless, empty vortex.

But somehow, in the moment you least expect it, the clouds break, and instead of being caught in a maelstrom, you are caught in a beam of sunlight now softened by the passing of the storm. The rain slows until the only reminder of it ever having been is the steady, calming sound of glistening droplets falling from eaves and branches.

In that moment, you feel the whole earth sigh a deep exhale of relief and renewal. You feel it in your roots first. Though still weak and small, they no longer fumble to find the life they so desperately sought. They stretch deeper and hold more strongly to the newfound richness in the soil.

The roots deliver new life. It pulses through your withered soul. Your petals open with more colour and vigour than you ever remembered. Your leaves unfurl, stronger and larger than you ever thought possible.

In awe, you wonder at the thing you once were, the hardships that brought you into this new experience of life and you make a promise to always be grateful for the storms. To let your roots grow deeper, always feeding from the earth made abundant by the rain.