Cherry blossoms in winter copyright: Signe Pike |
Today was the first real test for the small ceramic heater –
it took ages for my little shed to heat despite the insulation, and there I sat in
my wool socks and sweater and slippers, the grey mohair blanket given to me by
a friend wrapped overtop of everything as the heater roared full blast, my
computer open on my lap, waiting for the storm to come, and feeling more
content than ever to simply write.
Here
in the south, our media highways have been cluttered with news of the impending
ice storm. Potential loss of
electricity and stores sold out of firewood, and I realized that despite any
danger, for me there is always something exciting about a storm. I like the preparations, the battening
down of hatches, the heaviness you can feel in the air and the utter quiet that
falls over our yards and snakes out into the streets, chasing people inside
because nature, no matter how much dominion some people think we possess, is
still the supreme ruler here on earth, and I never cease to be awed by her
power. Good. Make us scuttle, make us scurry. Remind us of the fact that this
is not a democracy. Of course I never want to see anyone come to harm. But I
think storms can be good; they remind us of our humility. Our humanity. They
remind us, when we survive them, of our good fortune—which I think far too
often evaporates as quickly as the storm fell upon us, with the appearance of
the first sunny sky.
Storms
come into our life because things are beyond our control, and there is a peace
in that, if you can find it.
This
past week I mourned the loss of my uncle, a man who was by far my most exacting
critic and somehow also my biggest fan. I spent the better part of a week in
Maryland helping sort his affairs, because when people go, there is so much
doing that needs to get done, and in the quiet moments you lean against
something and breathe, and feel your heart crack all over again. Sometimes I
feel defeated by it – my aunt, my father’s only sibling, has now lost her
husband, and she is terminal too. My heart breaks for her, but not just for
her, for everyone who has lost someone, because I have learned too many times
in my relatively young life what it feels like to lose someone you love, and knowing
that this sort of heartbreak is both unavoidable and in its own way, pandemic,
feels like too much to bear.
But
as I sat waiting for the first pounding of sleet to streak down my windows, I
realized that these too are storms. There is nothing to control or battle. All
you can do is weather it.
A
good friend once told me it is an honor to be present with someone at the end
of their days.
I
have come to see that though this is hard, it is true. We can pray for safe
passage, we can pray for protection, we can pray for the coming light. But
perhaps if we do only these things, we are missing the point.
Can
we learn to honor the storm?
We
can prepare, but can we find a way to embrace it, because of what it brings to
us? It is a reminder that life is fleeting and uncertain. And there is beauty
in that. Storms remind us that there are powers on this earth we will never
conquer, nor should we. This is not the natural order of things.
We
are stewards, not rulers.
And
it is the same on earth as it is within our bodies.
This
week, when I came back to myself, I found I was sitting before my computer,
waiting for the storm to come, but I was not afraid. The manuscript that had
felt daunting instead tasted delicate, it smelled like home. There was a new
comfort in both the words and the feeling of sitting, of channeling and asking
the scenes to come, and I thought, if this is what I spend my hours doing, my
life has been good.
I
know as the planet groans and shifts we will face many storms ahead, both real
and metaphorical. What we must remember, I think, is to do our best in the
times in between. Live well, love hard, and offer others pieces of your heart
in a thousand ways. That way when storms do come, we can bide them more easily.
Pay
homage to the power of wind, water and atmosphere, be grateful for what we
have. And in the heart of winter, a good book, glass of wine, a hot mug of
ginger root with lemon, or a game of Scrabble by the fire never hurts too.