And we're back...

There was a storm last night. One of those sudden, clamorous, air-clearing, late-autumn thunderstorms that make way for the cooler weather that is finally, finally soothing sunburned South Texas.

It happened fairly late, but I was awake for it. This was Gabe's (the new dog) first such thunder-boomer, and turns out he's not a fan. He growled and barked relentlessly at the storm for as long as it splayed itself over our windows and balcony and metal-clad roofs and outer walls. Reclaimed urban architecture is a rich sounding board for wind-driven precipitation. And I'm in a top-floor, corner loft. So with all the water-music and the canine protestation, it was a wild and wooly (and noisy!) stretch of night for a stretch of time.

As I said, I was awake for it. And when I'm awake - still, and despite my best efforts on the cushion - my mind gets busy. One maybe-benefit of all the mindfulness practice I've done is that now, while it's getting busy, it's also getting busy noticing how it's getting busy, and noticing the quality of that noticing, and etc.

So I can tell you, this afternoon, something about what was going on in my mind early this morning while the storm blew itself out.

I was calm. (Sturdy construction, fairly recent rehab, no worries about serious structural failure). I was excited. (Because, really, I love big nasty storms. The bigger and nastier, the better. It's like mainlining electricity.) I was a little frustrated with the dog. And I was wondering how much damage was being done, out there.

Not "if" damage was being done. But how much. And with every arising of that thought, I'd notice another thought arising as well, reminding me that the damage was inevitable, and there'd be time to deal with it after the storm had passed. But for now, let the wind and water wreak their havoc and just lie down under it all.

Just lie down.

Which I did.

So in this story, the damage "out there" meant damage to my urban balcony ecosystem. Which is way minimal. Some cat food was spoiled. A couple of litter boxes were flooded. Some planters got blown around. Damage was minimal because I have put some thought into what is out there, and where it's placed. I've planned as best I can to minimize the damage that the inevitable storms will wreak. So when a storm hits, I trust my plan. I accept that there will be some damage anyway. And I just lie down under it all and wait for the skies to clear.

That's kind of how I've spent the past year. It's been a stormy one - although the storms have been quite various. In the early months they were terrifying. Roiling toxic-green emotional skies and wind-blows to the heart and stomach that sounded and felt like they were wrenching giant trees, still alive and screaming, from the ground by their roots. Storms I'd never imagined planning for. Storms so vast and violent I had no conception of what kind of damage they were doing to me. In those days, I would lie down under it all not because I trusted the process, but because I couldn't get up.

Lately, the storms have been... pyrotechnic. Sunshowers. Heat-lightening. Freak wind-gusts and flash-floods and sudden, surprising snow flurries. The emotional weather is variable and the terrain is changing all the time. New opportunities, new interests, new structures. Recommitments and deepenings. Healing is a complicated enough process when it takes place in quiet and seclusion. Mine, for whatever reason, is taking place amidst an explosion of color and sound and light. I am tempest-toss't from one shiny thing to another, and this, too, is a storm.

And I have been lying down under it all, while it has been doing some damage. Some of which is actually hard kindness; pruning away decayed relationships and rotted obligations. But there has also been damage to some of my commitments to myself. To the practices that establish themselves in the calm between storms - to the sitting & writing & movement practices that make me strong and flexible enough to withstand the big weather, when it comes.

This morning, I cleaned up the damage done by last night's storm. It was a simple enough procedure, if not particularly sexy. Just a moment-by-moment recommitment to the (mostly physical) work of putting things back where they belong. And, this afternoon, I'm extending that recommitment to include cleaning up the damage done by the storms of this past year. I smoked my last cigarette last night. I've come back to this space, today. I spent the weekend reconnecting with my meditation practice through art (truly my favorite type of meditation-in-action). I suppose you could call it an early New Year's resolution.

I just think I'm done lying down under it all.

Not that there is anything shameful or wrong or even unskillful in lying down and waiting for a storm to pass. In fact, I think that kind of lying down - in trust or without, in fear or resignation, on purpose or out of necessity - is profound mind/body wisdom. But the nature of storms is that they blow over. And when they do, it's time to stand up again.

To look around. To re-assess.

To rejoin the new-washed world.