The Calm Around The Storm

Preparing, going through it, and coming out the other side

Dear Reader,

We spent last Thursday anticipating the storm. Milking every last drop of sunshine from the unusually calm and sticky daylight hours, we painted, we mowed, we let the goats roam free to forage and fill their bellies before inevitably tucking themselves into their houses for the duration of the weekend.

It’s true what they say, about the calm before the storm. After nearly two months of relentless winds, everything came to a noticeable halt. All was quiet, except for the echoes of other distant mowers and chatter from not-so-nearby neighbors; sounds only revealed on these rare breathless days.

I prepared a big pot of stew midday to conserve our after sundown solar usage, knowing that the days to follow could be gray and our small system may not collect much, if any, charge. I bathed in the sun and washed my hair, sparing myself a raindrop-pelted tub later. I ran and hung two loads of laundry.

While nestled in bed and all three cats accounted for, I spotted the first flash. The spirit of the first flicker of lightning is a trickster, always making one doubt themselves. Did I  just see that? Then another flash and a distant rumble affirms it to be true, that a storm is rolling in. The thunder lingered within earshot just long enough to make the cats lift their heads with darting marble eyes, then traveled onward. The lightning lasted throughout the night, its path arching from one side of the yard to the other as the hours passed. The first tap taps of rain on the metal roof crescendoed into an impressive waterfall off our temporarily gutter-less lanai that held its gusto until nearly sunrise; a reminder to add “water catchment system” to the homestead wish list.

We opened our eyes early to clear blue skies and another quiet morning. No evidence of any disturbance in our small sphere left by the overnight drama. Windows and doors opened, like Dorothy stepping out into a technicolor world, morning coffee and chairs pulled into the sun path, tank straps pulled down over my shoulders while my husband flows through a series of sun salutations (I can’t recall the last time).

This mundane weekend weather story is a reflection of something more and I’ll permit your imagination to draw your own parallels. For me, there’s something familiar here to our journey to finding our peace post-move, something about the value of slow living that this tiny home has offered us, something about coming out on the other side.

(And on that note, Happy Mother’s Day.)

Thank you for reading. The comments and ♥︎‘s you leave on these letters in Substack are an appreciated affirmation and help new readers find me. If something here speaks to you, please share this publication with a friend.