New Years Eve storm. Flooded park. New Years Day run. Through a temporary lake. Shared with swans and a heron. Because not running through freezing flood water isn’t a rule, it’s a choice. And the thrill of the coldness and noise and wetness and surprising depth and warmth of my skin afterwards and the insignificance of the puddles I was avoiding before and the sense of presence and all-in-ness and sheer joy of being. Because of that.
The Storm.
The storm doesn’t know the stillness of its absence.
Ravenously drawing energy from perceived differences,
Trying with unmeasured force to rebalance itself, its wrong, the world.
Until it has thrashed its fierce self against all-comers,
Until, in utter spent exhaustion, it returns to the sky.
No more wise, resolved nor satisfied for its roaring.
Some storms overwhelm us and saturate our lives,
Our perception drawn close, we don’t see that they have edges.
The storm can’t know the stillness of its absence.
But the stillness knows that all storms end.
Gavin Birchall
Storming – Gavin-Birchall
We can’t live our lives worrying about depth. Stopping because we don’t know the way. Because the path isn’t clear. Because we might sink. So much would be out of reach that way. We have to trust in our ability to swim.