Why must we gather the wood and store all the food? Because the storm is coming and we will need provisions. Why must we say goodbye to all our friends and be confined to one small room? Because the storm is coming and it’s safer to hide indoors. Why must we cover all the windows and bolt down the door? Because the storm is coming and our house will be stronger without any vulnerabilities. ... .. . And so, we waited in the darkness and prepared for what was to come. The days nights grew longer than the days until we couldn’t recognize the moon from the sun. Fear became our bond. We sustained ourselves meagerly and protected ourselves vigilantly while time slipped through the cracks into a world that became unknown. . .. ... But the storm never came. And now we don’t know who we are without it.
What ‘storm’ is life preparing you for? And how has that preparation become a part of your identity?
I must not feel, or else I’ll be overwhelmed. A storm. I must not lose control, or else I’ll be helpless. A storm. I must stay young, or else I won’t be loved. A storm. I must not doubt myself, or else I won’t be spiritual. A storm…
Even if it is just for a moment, be willing to meet that fear by allowing yourself to be overwhelmed, to be helpless, to be unloved, to be unspiritual- and know yourself beyond what fear might have made of you.
It’s our resistance to meeting fear that binds us to an identity that cannot be free of itself.
True freedom is not won by battling our fears. It is revealed as what lives in the heart of every fear that is willingly met.
A Gentle Question
What ‘storm’ are you preparing yourself for? And can you step back, without judgement, and just notice how it might have become a part of your identity?
This poem speaks to me in a way that I can’t ignore. I’ve weathered more storms than I ever wanted to, survived things that left me closed off, always bracing for the next wave. But there’s a time for everything, and I reached the point where the air inside became too stifling. So, I threw open the windows. Now, the wind rushes in, carrying the scent of ozone and salt, rattling the shutters, but I’m breathing again. Sometimes, it’s not the storm we need to fear, but what happens when we hide from it for too long. There’s freedom in letting life in, even when it’s messy.
The song and riddle of fae move through me.Possibly a remembrance from my Scottish maternal grandmothers. Long lost without mention in the lineage of patriarchy. I now discover them through the matrisphere of ancestral circuitry.
This is my storm. In the evening of life will I be found or lost? Will I even be remembered? This storm also is illusionary, for in the face of it, without the eye of it, I see myself and remember. I am the storm, bringing all weather and living to this wonder-full heart of mine and my Grandmothers.
Thank you Sez and community for this curiousness of fear and waiting for a storm that ceases to be, except in me.