Waiting for the Eye of the Storm

storm

The amazing thing about time is that it’s never where you want it. When you are the midst of a bad day, or even less-than-average day, time acts like molasses in winter; it doesn’t move. But when you want to savor something, grasp onto those oh-so-precious moments, the ones that are composed on warm summer days and authored in personal conversations, or spent with special people or saved by dancing outside on rainy days…they are like sand in a sieve. They spin away, and those wonderful weeks waste rapidly, replaced by bitter realities. If this was the stock market, it would be measured in bear and bull cycles, and you could watch the graph fall in recessions, and worse, into depressions. I feel like Kronos, the titan of time, has a personal vendetta against me. He stretches and freezes me, and then drops me like a stone. And when that happens, I enter one of the storms.

These tempests in my life are very much like badly behaved dinner guests. They rage and storm and feast upon patience and endurance until there is no flesh left and then they gnaw on the bones and bits of fat and suck the marrow. Their table manners are rude, and they burp and don’t wipe their mouths after their done.  Often, they don’t leave tips, leaving the table a mess. When the gluttons are done, I peek out from beneath the tablecloth and begin to clean up the disaster.

The storm will blind me and toss me about like a poor child on his birthday with a bandanna for a blindfold and a bat for protection. I feel walls and furniture around me to get around, because I don’t really see. I turn lights on, but I might as well keep them off. Nothing is Seen, and that’s not a lot to look at. But the wonderful thing is that even typhoons aren’t blind. They have an eye. The hurricane will blink and suddenly I can see. I’m in the Eye. It’s calm, because I can see the torrents and waves around me, but me and my life-raft drift limply for a blissful moment until the storm chooses to close its eye again and I’m sucked back into the chaos. But even that moment where I can see perfectly makes the rest so more endurable.

Sometimes, the eye comes upon me in a flash and I bask in it’s sunlight. Sometimes, when it gets especially dark and my hands start to shake because I have nothing to hold onto, I go looking for the eye. To find it, I sometimes do funny things. Recently, I set myself in alone, and cranked up the music. I took a pen to paper, and doodled next to my mug of herbal tea. By the time I was done, the selected songs were all over and repeating, the paper and my hands were black with ink, and the mug was empty. And for a moment, just one moment, I was in the eye. I could see me.

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