January 20, 2019

windy morning

The wind here on top of the mountain ridge is blowing so fiercely that even the bare-fingered trees are swaying like palms under its power, stately upright folk in the grip of a gospel hymn in church.  The cabin cracks and creaks in imperfect resistance.  I hide inside, tiny in flannel pajamas, watching the trees from my window.

My parents were unable to do anything to protect me from all that assailed me when I was a child.  I was blown and toppled repeatedly.  Now, lost in introspection, I find that being cocooned in shelter from storms and howling winds still feels like strong arms crossed in front of me, holding me close, safe from danger.  Against the mighty gusts we are all small and vulnerable.

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