The calm after the storm

Welcome to the aftermath of the storm.

Photo by Todd Trapani on Unsplash

There are moments in all of our lives where everything seems to stop. The winds stop roaring, and the rain gradually subsides. The ground stops shaking, and the dust settles. The dark clouds hover, stubbornly holding their ground, threatening to release once more. The air is crisp and cool after a thorough cleansing, and the birds are whispering from the comfort of their hiding places, waiting for the opportune time to emerge and sing. The residual pitter-patter of raindrops persists; the droplets coalesce and join forces, and the water runs down like a stream, then a waterfall, mirroring teardrops trickling down cheeks. The low grumbling of the clouds is interposed with quiet sobs, a reminder of what was and of what still looms. The storm may be over. But as we look around and absorb the weight of its aftermath, we can hardly see the sunbeams, teasingly dancing behind the clouds. An illusion of sorts - one that asks us to sit in the shelter of the waiting as we anxiously peer out, waiting for the light to break through and cast a shimmer on what is left behind in the storm's wake.

As the dark clouds lighten, silently trading their anger for peace, I sit, apprehensively, with a tiny inkling of hope, waiting for the light to break through their shadows.

As I wait, I wonder. I take stock. I grieve what was lost in the upheaval, in the fiery strike of lightning and the explosive bellow of thunder. I grieve what was carried away by the rains that threatened to overtake me and wash all wisps of peace away. I wander the unrecognizable landscape, looking for a path forward, grounding myself and finding my bearings as I desperately seek to reestablish a sense of place and space — a sense of belonging. I search the wreckage for signs of life - anything that might have survived the shaking. I hold myself as I look around, taking stock of what is forever gone, of what remains, and what is yet to be found.

After the storm, everything stops. The dark clouds lighten, silently trading their anger for peace. And I sit, apprehensively, with a tiny inkling of hope, waiting for the light to break through their shadows.

Yes, a piece of myself may have died in the storm, never to return. But what remains?

Suddenly, the answer comes in the quiet whispers of the wind. I do. I weathered the storm and remain standing, fighting despair, hand in hand with hope, anticipating the light that comes after the storm. The joy that comes in the morning.

But what is yet to be found?

I sit in the midst of the aftermath of my storm, anxiously waiting for the clouds to clear, tentatively anticipating a glorious resolution. As I sit, I see my sign - the makings of a single flower, rooting itself in the aftermath of the storm. Its roots are gripping the ground, absorbing the flood of rainwater. The winds have taken hold of its seed, carrying them far and wide. The shadow of the storm has grounded the bloom, and the sunbeams slowly dance across its petals. Gradually, the bloom begins to revive, lifting its face towards the sky, absorbing the life-giving rays. The flower is blooming.

It dawns on me that the flower is me, and I am the flower. The shadow of the storm has grounded me, and in the coming light, I shall bloom. I already am blooming. And as I bloom, I find what I was desperately looking for - purpose. Newfound strength. Sense of self. Abiding joy. And a deep sense of peace.

Welcome to the aftermath of the storm. Welcome to the light. Welcome to the joy that comes in the morning.

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