We had a tropical storm roar through the area…odd for the foothills of the Blue Ridge. We are more likely to experience late evening thunderstorms…in July and August, not the weekend of Halloween. The weekend of Halloween we are normally dreading the impending snow apocalypse, the teacup full of snow we receive in late January or February.
I fear tropical storms roaring through our area may become more frequent if we continue to deny and do nothing about global climate change…this isn’t about global warming unless we are talking about temperature increases involving my bride when she is mad. She can cause the temperature in a room to soar like the afternoons in August…sometimes like the center of a thermonuclear detonation.
When I stepped out to enjoy my predawn cigar and meditation before the rains, I noticed the sticky feel, the oppressive humidity. The temperature hit me in the face and reminded me of heat radiated from a pot bellied stove turning pink from the fire inside. There was a freshening breeze that grew in intensity, violently twisting the hemlocks, poplars, and walnuts. While I worried as the electric power failed, I thought about “clearing off showers” that had nothing to do with the weather.
The storm front blew through leaving a deep blue sky above and a carpet of ;eaves. limbs and twigs below. The winds still raged as I spent the afternoon glancing at the sky as I removed litter from underfoot. It became a metaphor for life, at least my life, including the litter I still must deal with.
The morning after, 4:30 in the A. M., plenty of litter remains but the nearly full moon is sharp and bright, back lighting a sky with thousands of visible stars. As the sun made its appearance, so did a deep blue, cloudless sky as if the storm had scrubbed the air clean…a clearing off shower as I heard the old folks say…now I’m one of the old folks.
My marriage is similar…the basis for my metaphor. My bride and I tend to tiptoe around each other, avoiding contention as best we can until the air we breathe becomes filled with the dirt and grit of annoyances and vexations. Choking us…the smog and ash of past resentments and displeasure. The muck that congests us and our love for each other.
There will be an explosion that jars us like a nearby lightning strike, the thunderclap loud and rumbling, the vibrations felt deeply in our hearts and soul. There maybe a heavy rain before storm fully passes. Once the clouds abate, the sun comes out, the air is clean and crisp. Our love is once again clean and shiny like a freshly cleaned mirror…a mirror to our souls.
Clearing off showers…necessary for the flowers and trees to grow. Necessary for love to grow…for love to bloom.
While Don Miller doesn’t normally wax poetic his author’s page may be found at https://www.amazon.com/Don-Miller/e/B018IT38GM?fbclid=IwAR3Wjns8dEtr4Q8oisuqEKWNHeNuNUhqwkPoakQ2W1ydhRHJgmGEMPQMxQk