Approaching Storm

It's midday on a Tuesday near the end of June and, though I should be marketing my upcoming t'ai chi chih classes or advertising our office space on Madeline Island, I'm caught in the hushed expectation of an approaching storm. The temp is now down to 60 from a high of 80+ and, when Frances and I walk out onto the deck, we hear the roar of approaching wind through the trees. The sky to the south is dark and as a few scattered raindrops begin to fall we scurry to carry our planters and hanging flower baskets into the porch and living room. I rush to the kitchen sink to draw a pitcher of water in preparation for an electrical outage.

After all precious living plants are moved to shelter inside we step onto the deck again to survey the rapid weather change and listen to the whoosh of wind, drawing closer. As Frances opens the patio door, though, the sun shines down. And, even as we stand by the railing looking east toward Lake Superior and watching the darkness of rain falling, we feel the sunlight grow stronger, the heat rise, and the sounds of gathering winds collapse into a low, distant murmur. Our anticipated storm has passed us by and we're left with unused adrenaline, unwatered flowers, unnecessary preparations. Ahh, life in the woods.

I return to the computer to post my first blog and sigh with relief. Somehow the intimidation of trying something new is made smaller by the just-missed cycling storm of spent and unspent energy that surrounded us moments ago. Nature's gathering power puts everything into perspective. Once again, I'm brought into the present. Just this moment. Now.