Her Soul, a Storm

The sky sometimes resembles the soul. It looks beautiful when it looks wild. Though years have passed, I still remember watching the storms roll in from the east, over the small town of Eddystone where my grandparents lived throughout all my childhood years. The skyline from the city behind us and the row homes across the street served as a backdrop to these unruly clouds. We sat, stomachs turning, waiting for these storms. They hit with vengeance, like the rush of a roller coaster ride. We screamed and beckoned for it to come. We clambered to stay dry, fighting for spots next to the wall, in from the edges of the exposed porch. The fierce wind came as if in slow motion, moving toward us and blowing every which way. Lightening blazed just a few towns over, followed by deep cracks of thunder. We were in a torrential downpour. Maybe, if we were lucky, it would last all afternoon. Sometimes the rain would hit us sideways and the clouds would mask the day as night, clouds that turned from gray to black to blue to white, all mixed together, dark and ominous, but mysterious and satisfying.

The truth is we loved every thunderstorm that barreled down and across Eddystone Avenue. Always, they fascinated us. What choice did we have but to submit to such clout? On the one hand, this power was scary, on the other it was good to know that big storms meant a bigger power presiding over me. Dark clouds still loom from time to time, but always, I am mesmerized by them, taken by them and comforted under their canopy.

The soul desperate in fear, wondering, doubting or confused is a picture-perfect blue, black sky. Turning in rhyme with the wind and moving forward with a vengeance, the dark night of heartbreak, its losses stacked upon losses, feels less like grandeur and more like the fiercest storm. I’ve seen it in the face of one I know. To her, this raging tempest has carved out a meaningless void, a mismatch of dark experiences and thoughtless words from those who mattered most. As I listen and watch her eyes, I see something in her far different from what she sees. The sky that seems dark and erie, that overshadows any grain-of-sand-sized hope is the start of a tapestry that she cannot yet perceive. And the sky that falls heavy with gloom? It is also a mysterious strength. Can a tattered spirit be exquisite? I’m finding it can, here, in her. This somber sky is one I love. Its depth, radiance, quality unmeasured and peace are a backdrop to her perplexing pain. Life is always this way, and it is this way in her. She can only feel the turning rage and the billows of clouds tossed out of control. Still, like the storms I saw years ago, her soul is captivating and radiant, admirable in its own right, and a storehouse of abundance.

This sky, this storm, is true fortune, untamed.