Daily Archives: December 5, 2015

The Storm

And when he looked out the window he saw inside. Across the plain a wind waited. But inside all was still.

There was an openness in the sky. Like anything could happen. In fact anything must happen. A bolt of lightning. A funnel cloud of energy from the blue. A tension was felt waiting.

He felt like a rubber band waiting to snap. Stretched past the limit. His life was a spinning wheel. So fast it was still. There was an energy in the wheel. It wanted to move. It wanted to roll across the plain. Like a thunder cloud. But the thunder was quiet.

A war was being negotiated. On the most passive terms. They drew lines in the sand. And crossed lines in the sand. And drew more lines. And the lines still got crossed. But the parties stayed in line.

A wind was brewing. You could feel it in your pulse. If you sat next to his thoughts. The way he sat alone with this weather. Then you would feel something was heating up. Looking out across the empty landscape. He swears he can see the heat rising. Through the stagnant air.

The land almost thirsts for the release. Like a lover hungry for a lover. The air dry like your mouth before a kiss. They reach for each other. Long for each other. The land and the sky. A mood is deepening. A tone is changing. The winds are blowing. But the grass is placid.

Since the last coming. People wait for the next coming. Will it be today? Will it be tomorrow? He waits for the storm to come. And wash away everything he is and loves. People don’t know him. They see the still, but his heart is beating. And it is beating for the land. The land stops.

The flat land. It gives us all our birth. And it takes us all home in the end. Beating in the land is the source of life. And it beats in the clouds. And it beats in the ocean. And it waits for the right moment. A passionate moment of storm and fury. But the storm winds are calm.

How can a sunflower burst forth from the soil. And reach with its love for the sky. How can words fall from empty mouths. Books full of blank pages support grand ideas. Wisdom of a thousand years. The wheat doesn’t need wisdom. The corn doesn’t teach. And the soy beans don’t learn. Man learns and needs wisdom. But wisdom is found in serenity.

He beats his heart. And beats the air. Beats the sounds inside his head. All the voices with their wisdom. When all he wants to listen to is the land. The heart of the storm. The wash of the rain. The song of the siren tempting him to his fate. There must be a fate for man in this world. Could his fate be empty?

Rise. Rise and shine. A thousand stars shine in his soul. But across the plain of darkness there is nothing. The wind blows one way. Then it blows another. The moon sits like a pie on a table. Waiting for the ice cream. How can the land be so far away. The land beats with passion. The sky throbs with desire. But they remain in their own worlds so often. When the storm breaks they touch. But where is the storm holding itself now.

More words don’t call down the clouds. More noise doesn’t bring the thunder. He dips a broom in water. And takes it into the field to sprinkle it on the ground. But the corn mocks his gesture. And the wheat turns its head in shame. You can’t move the storm like you can a mountain. In the end the land is taken away and the sky remains.

He touches his body. A heart beats in his flesh. The thin arms and legs carry his wounded pride. There is a passion inside of him. Like the birds flying in the sky. Or the ants living inside the earth. A passion so deep and reckless he fears it more than a storm. A passion in chains.

Even the sky has consciousness. And it is offended by your nakedness. Well the devil himself. Pan and Dionysus turn their backs. The wheat drops its head. And the sky is unreachable and proud. What a storm he would unleash into a glass bottle. He fears it all. And longs for inner peace.

But outside he turns the windmill. He runs up and down the hills. Lighting fires and dancing. He chants the name of Shiva. And runs naked across the empty plain of his imagination. Only there in a world of power and chaos. There in the wind is a home for his passion. But across this plain are only the doldrums.

When he desires the wind. He knows the wind is blowing away on its own journey. No cage can hold the wind. No fence can hold the earth. And the wheat and corn find their own escape. Dig deep and he finds himself a liar. The storm he projects on a still world. It is the storm in his own heart. And in his frozen eyes.

What if the sun could arise and kill the envious moon? Can our dreams every be snuffed by reality? The winds calmed by the land. Two hands find each other in the dawn. Two lips hold each other in the starlight. Two hearts create a third. And passion grows and changes. The world is full of passion. But the storm of passion for him is dry.

Don’t touch me, she said. And he hasn’t eaten since he was six. But they sky has waited. And waited with a gift. Like the doorway to the law, made only for him. But he doesn’t know how to ask for heaven’s promise. Doesn’t know so he waits, until to door is closed.

The storms bring water for the soil. A biosphere of unimaginable life and complexity. There may be more living things in a single foot of soil than people in New York City. But like a separate dimension it is locked away from our view. It is its own reality, and it is perennial.

Every door has a key. A password for the gate. The window has a latch. But he doesn’t open. The view he sees of the landscape is through the glass. Always on the other side of experience. In a house build with dull pencils and old wheat stalks. The corn sits in the weather. But he sits on the inside alone.