The Clense

Today a storm swelled the sky, making me stop what I was doing…and take notice.  When your head is full of noise, questions, and doubts–it’s as though your body grows to house them all.  Losing your sense of your body, your place in the world, makes you think you are the center of things.  Everyone stares, everyone comments. You are larger than life–except that you aren’t.

I took some to time to read a book today, one that has sat, unread, on my shelf for two years.  It came to me in friendship, and now it will teach me how to live again. That is what she told me, and wrote on the first page of the book.  I believed I was already living, so there it sat.

I want to learn to live again. And so I’ll read. As I took shelter in my garage, reading, or trying to rather, the storm came slowly and quickly at the same time. I watched it come from far away and it took an hour or so. But once it was here, the rapid wind took hold of the sky and it quickened its pace.

People either love storms or they hate them. I happen to love them. I seem to be drawn to large, violent, untamed, passionate things.  Things that quicken my heartbeat and I wish I was still like those things.

When the rain came and the wind followed the trees bent almost sideways in multiple directions, but they did not break. Perhaps I am a tree, steadfast, strong, bendable–But I will not break.

This thunderstorm is breaking other things though.  Road signs have twisted so much they blow in a mangled mess on the streets. Cars swerve to avoid them.  The power flickered three times, and on the fourth, it forgot to come on again.  The wind tries to catch itself in fits of tag–chasing itself round and round about, and it makes a whipping sound.  This game or perhaps the sound itself has thrown lawn chairs and a potted plant against the house, destroying every man-mad thing in its path.  The things we build for protection, the design we create to beautify and feel normal.  But it is doing other things too–quenching the thirsty flowers, filling the pond for the fish, chasing the heat away.

That which bends us, also nurtures us.

And I too am quenched.

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