Storms
And Silence
Christine
Loyd-Deschamps
in issue eight
Scintillations
Surf’s Up
A Right to the Left
Hooray Soleil
The Power of Letting Go
Fuzzy Alien Antennae
Storms and Silence
Incredible Shrinking Woman
Apologizing to Mandy
Sex in the Outback
Dream Interpretation
Moody Girl
Younger Self
Single (again)
photography
Meditation
Single Sunflower
Porch
Park Feet
Smith Doors
Subway Guy
poetry
Courage
Fear
Change
Revelations
My Illusion
artwork
Dancing Star Girl
Noire
Nude on the Side
workshops
Play With
Your Words
Writing Workshop
Magic Money
Write or
Photograph
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I was at the tail end of a weeklong business trip that had left me feeling drained and ineffective, and was seeking solitude and regeneration at a resort town on the coast of Queensland. I had ventured to a nearby National Park and hiked every available trail before coming to an isolated outcropping of rock overlooking the eastern coast of Australia. Unlike most of the shoreline in the park, with its white sand beaches and softly hissing waves, this peninsula ended abruptly in a tumble of rugged black boulders the size of houses. The boulders spilled into the sea and pierced its surface with their sharp corners. Enormous waves burst against the rocks, sending jets of spray into the air. But the most terrifying and exhilarating aspect of this place was the yawning crevasse known as Hell’s Gate. Here the ocean had found a weakness in the unmovable granite, resulting in a deep wound in the cliff. At the back of this long narrow gash, just above the water line, was a stone grotto, carved out by the persistence of water and tide. As the waves crashed into the hollow of the grotto the echo of their roar produced an eerie moan.
The danger and beauty of this place drew me to linger longer than I had planned. I stood on the edge of the cliff looking out over the ocean to the southeast. The moody light of the storm clouds and the seemingly inner glow of the backlit waves were strangely moving. I was surprised to find my eyes moist with tears and my throat tight with pent-up sobs. It had been so long since I had cried, but dwarfed by the vastness of the great Pacific Ocean I felt raw and vulnerable. I could feel parts of me awakening that I had already mourned as dead. My corporate job, though prestigious, had cost me so much more than years. It had robbed me of my sense of identity and transformed me into the kind of person that could champion a cause for which she had no passion, who could speak the language of business and technology with fluency, but without heart. These lies of living had become too costly. I had all but lost the essence of myself.
Deep in thought, I had failed to notice the speed with which a small but violent storm cell raced toward me from the southeast. I was over a mile from the closest shelter, alone except for a stunted tree stubbornly rooted in the rocks. One hundred feet below me the crashing and moaning waves pounded the black cliffs with their amorphous fists. Thirty-foot walls of water collided in the chasm of Hell’s Gate, thrusting up a glistening spray of water and foam, suspended motionless in the air for a fleeting moment before raining back down onto the black rock. The storm was only a few heartbeats away from landing on shore, and its preternaturally strong winds were already buffeting my body. In the midst of the absolute power of nature one calm and commanding thought spoke in my mind, “Hang on.”
I
grabbed the little tree just as the storm struck with such
strength that it knocked me down. I drew myself into a
crouching position, hugging the trunk of the tree to my
shoulder and ducking my head against the force of the driving
rain. Though I could feel the wild thrashing of its limbs
transmitted through its trunk, the tree was strong, and it
held to the rock as firmly as I held to it. Within seconds I
was wet to the bone and my exposed skin was raw from the sting
of the rain. Rivulets of water ran into my eyes and streamed
off the tip of my nose and chin, making it impossible for me
to see more than a gray blur when I opened my eyes. The roar
of water filled my ears with its pounding, yet it didn’t
fill my being. Inside I was a temple of calm reverence and
awe. My breathing was steady and free. I could feel joy
growing in my belly like a warm fire, spreading up to my chest
and throat. Something in me was changing, loosening. As I
knelt on the ground, my soul rose to meet the storm in
recognition and gratitude. I was alive for the first time in a
long time.
Gradually
and almost imperceptibly, the rain began to lessen and the
wind to die. As the quiet descended, I opened my eyes to the
colorless light of the aftermath. I could hear the dripping of
water over the sifting hiss of the waves on the rocks below.
Gradually I loosened my grip on the tree and straightened my
cramped back and limbs. I was dazed and somewhat disappointed.
I wanted to rewind time to the moment before the storm hit the
shore, when I faced the rush of wind and water with calm
resolve. At that moment I had been completely cognizant of the
raw power that was about to be unleashed on me, yet I met it
with an equally powerful calm. I had experienced two opposing
faces of power: the raw force of unbridled motion and the
centered silence of simply being.
I
stood perfectly still, my eyes fixed on the horizon, afraid
that if I moved the spell would be broken. The residual
excitement of the experience clung to my skin and resonated in
my chest and throat, but I feared that my seeming
transformation was tied to this place and would remain here as
I traveled on. I needed the wild fury of the storm. I needed
the beauty and the danger. I needed the raw and honest emotion
that it embodied. I needed to feel the liberation and
invigoration of my own power unleashed in a very real and
elemental way. My lifelong internal calm had served me well,
but gradually my calm resolve had begun to resemble surrender
to inertia. I had become patient when I should have become
angry. I had developed perseverance when what I really needed
was courage to initiate change.
Eventually
I pried my feet from where they were rooted. As I walked
slowly back to town, I stopped and looked back often. The
ocean was still to my right, but it wasn’t the same ocean
that I had been so intimate with only minutes before. It was
glossy and calm, not the fierce and heroic ocean that had
seeped into my veins.
Returning
home to my landlocked city of Denver, I would set in motion a
future that I had dreamed about but never acted upon. To my
amazement, the elemental power that infused itself in my heart
would not fade with time, but would grow, metamorphosing into
a renewed strength and determination to truly live my life. I
would leave my corporate job and follow my life-long dream of
writing, rediscovering the passion in me that had always been
there, even when years of neglect had caused it to wither.
Though I know I have not yet arrived, I am so much farther
along on my journey as a result of that day. Acknowledging my
desire and need for writing made all of the difference. As I
sit here writing these words, I feel just as passionate and
just as alive as I did when I stood at Hell’s Gate.
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