The oaks shone/ gaunt gold/ on the lip/ of the storm before/ the wind rose,/ the shapeless mouth/ opened and began/ its five-hour howl;/ the lights/ went out fast, branches/ sidled over/ the pitch of the roof, bounced/ into the year/ that grew black/ within minutes, except/ for the lightening – the landscape/ bulging forth like a quick/ lesson in creating, then/ thudding away. Inside,/ as always, it was hard to tell/ fear from excitement:/ how sensual/ the lightning’s/ poured stroke! and still,/ what a fire and a risk!/ As always the body/ wants to hide,/ wants to flow toward it – strives/ to balance while/ fear shouts,/ excitement shouts, back/ and forth – each/ bolt a burning river/ tearing like escape through the dark/ field of the other.

Mary Oliver

Change is lightening. Sometimes it rolls in like a storm. Anticipated and powerful. Sometimes it explodes like a hot instant. Shocking and breath taking. I am drawn to it the way desire paths lead to hidden treasure. I am drawn to it the way snakes shed their skin. I am drawn to it the way bulbs burst in spring.

If change is lightening, and lightening is the electricity of storms, then I have lived my life moving between storms. Sometimes chasing. Sometimes dodging. (I suppose one person’s chasing is another person’s dodging.) Sometimes laughing. Sometimes crying. (Tears come from many places.) I have always embraced lightening’s sensual and pure stroke. I have always wanted to bath in it’s burning river while trying to figure out how to both dance and escape. Perhaps viewing lightening as crisis and opportunity. Perhaps connecting with seasons as life’s rhythm. Perhaps feeling the force of nature as life affirming.