It stormed today, in that hot, thick, heavy way that it storms in June. It came and went like a dizzy spell; the clarity in its wake so green and unsullied. The lights flicker – the neighborhood blinks to clear its misty mind, heads turned up to the sky, eyes waiting and open like vessels for change. This downpour is an atmospheric baptism, and those who’ve stayed inside will not be saved. The sky chooses wisely, you see. Her divinity can only bless us if we bear witness to her weeping.
This weather is a goddess imploring me to look up. See, I think my head’s been down so long that I wouldn’t know a rainbow if it wound itself into my soul – down in books, down in paper, and I can feel her resenting my audacity to turn away from my maker.
This weather is a heartbroken mother whose children never come to visit. Sometimes I think she doesn’t understand that life unfolds horizontally, not vertically. Sometimes I think she’s never heard the tales of turkies that stare at the sky so long they drown in the rain. This weather, this force, this gray arch of wrath and resentment, doesn’t understand that I can only look toward one reality at a time.
But I’m learning that this weather, this Goddess, this mourning mother, isn’t asking that I keep my nose toward the sky or drown in rain like fabled game birds; she simply wants a glance – the silent, loving recognition that she deserves for the hideously beautiful (or beautifully hideous?) coincidence that is my life.
I’ve needed reminding that this wind and rain and electricity aren’t so different from myself. I am a vortex of hots and colds and highs and lows. I am a torrential downpour – I am equally as cleansing as I can be violent. I am both whitehot flashes of impulsive decision, and the resounding wisdom that follows. This glorious chaos is just as much a part of me as it is a part of this world, and I am not afraid.
This storm is for me.