Beauty in Storms

My favorite sky is a murky one, one with layers of cool colors.
I love gray. Because grey looks simple and drab, but I see purples and blues in grays. Gray has layers of colors, combinations of emotion and aesthetic amazing-ness.
I love a stormy sky, especially when it reflects into a mirror-image body of water; one that looks beautifully disturbed and rolling with swelling emotion.
A gray sky heightens the colors of nature, too, in the spring and summer. Trees look Ireland-green, flowers look more bold, as if they're bringing out their best colors in stormy preparation.
I hate to sound didactic here, but I think I love storms--physically and metaphorically. I don't think I purposely put storms in my life, but I have this attraction to them, to conflict, in a nearly-masochistic, self-sacrificing sort of way. I think there is beauty in conflict because I discover more of myself, my reactions, my spitty defense. I learn more of what I do and do not like about myself, I learn how to emotionally train myself.
I try to bring out my raw colors in storms, but when a storm lasts a long time, I can't tell if the beauty of those colors has disappeared--maybe the blooms have long since been beaten to shrivel in the soil.
But (and again, I apologize for the didacticism) that's the beauty of nature, of the relationship between the sky and earth; things grow back, things always resurface.