Stormy Weather

A series of violent thunderstorms swept through central Massachusetts yesterday evening dumping nearly two inches of rain in the course of a few hours. Thunder rumbled through the sky and the trees flexed spasmodically with the fierce wind. Thankfully, no major damage here at the Temple, but just a few streets away some major branches fell harmlessly(?) into the streets.

Several of these rain and lightening events have either gone north or south of us over the past weeks, so I was happy for the moisture and for the excitement. I have always loved storms. I feel strangely reassured by the power of the wind and water. Unrestrained and non-negotiable it expresses life beyond my petty plans and worries.

The falling rain nourishes the plants I love and reminds me that I am not separate. The great planetary dance of water rising and falling sustains all life and generously includes me too. The rain that falls on the good and the evil doesn’t care whether I’m a success or a failure. Everything is washed away and we all stand included and equal. A fine mist gently caressing my bald head or the torrential downpour that drenches me through my rain gear—it all eases my soul. (As long as I have a warm tent or house to retreat to when I am done playing.)

I always remember Lear too. Raging against the storm. I too have raged against life—have screamed in anger and frustration from the pain and confusion of it all. I remember once, on the tip of an island looking out into a dark lake with the rain coming sideways to sting my face. Yelling and yelling. The anger and pain that began my scream were met with equal force by the wind and rain. Neither of us held back or gave way. In this place, there was a meeting. Life within and life without saying hello to each other. And somehow the energy of my primal complaint clarified and became something else—simply the energy of life coursing through me. Me and the wind and the rain and the lake all expressing the essential movement that is the cosmos itself.

One thing about screaming that you can find out fairly quickly is that you can’t do it forever. (Though some parents of infants might want to present contrary evidence.) Unbearable feelings, when expressed, move through and transform on their own. Not that there’s a magic trick to get rid of them, but that even the unbearable is not solid or permanent. When we hold on tightly in our resistance or fear of feeling, things appear to last forever. Terrible feelings get stuck in the throat or belly of the body and seem to be without beginning or end. But even stuck, like every other condition (including life), is a temporary position.

Yesterday, however, as I went from the front porch to the back porch to get a better view of the storm, there were also some moments of rising fear. I really didn’t want my planters of petunias to be blown off the railing. And I didn’t want any big branches from the mighty copper beech to end up on the roof of our car parked in what just an hour before had been the shade from the hot sun of the afternoon. Storms are nice, but destruction is not.

And I wondered about the increasing frequency of these powerful weather events which, I am told, are a product of the rising temperatures. More evaporation and more moisture in the air equals more potential energy and bigger storms. A large swath of Connecticut lost power two weeks ago in one of these afternoon storms that went south of us. Tornados, usually reserved for the south and mid-west have become more common here in the northeast.

So I temper my joy. I think about the ecological catastrophe that is happening. Species dying off at unprecedented rates, icecaps melting, oceans acidifying and coral reefs dying. I must remember these invisible changes that are not yet touching my privileged life here in Massachusetts but that do indeed threaten life as we know it and perhaps even the whole of human existence.

This morning, in spite of and because of all this, the trees are still and the koi pond is full. The storm has passed and the garden is refreshed—glad for the water it managed to soak in before the rest ran off to the streams and rivers. The peppery nasturtium trumpets once again broadcast their silent joy and I am touched by the fullness that resides in this particular moment.