Photo © Geraldine Forde-Buckley
It was clearly there on Wednesday. Hanging in the air. An eerie unease, perhaps even tinged with a vague foreboding. A perceivable sudden drop in air pressure.
The horses felt it too. Increased vigilance, assertive jostling for position. My Connemara pawing the ground. But no evident change in the weather. Just an inescapable feeling things were about to get worse.
There is little shelter for any of us when the weather comes in from the north-east, bringing heavy rain and high winds. An elder from my husband’s people once told me; “ we say trouble is coming when the wind blows from the north-east”. That’s how it felt to me on Wednesday. Before the wind and rain arrived.
I’m tired of dramatic, emotive language describing the weather. As if weather is our enemy. Weather forecasters predict “weather bombs” and we are told to “brace for severe weather” as we will be “blasted by gales”.
We used to talk of inclement weather. Conditions that were unpleasantly cold or wet. Our descriptions are well beyond that now.
I understand storms cause damage, flooding, loss. I live on the land with horses and cattle to care for. Forewarned is forearmed. Preparing as best one can is wise, but weather is not something we do battle with. We will we miss the lessons of weather if we live in fear of what weather could do to us.
I wonder if we could feel weather again; feel – rather than describe – whether we might better understand how to take shelter in a storm. Like my horses do. I have seen them move to a particular corner, a particular place on our land, 24 to 48 hours before there is any obvious change in the weather. When it does arrive they have already gathered together as a herd, turned their backs to the wind and rain, and then they simply wait it out.
In her natural state, the earth is inclusive. She invites us all to be together in the midst of everything. And so, no matter how wild the winter weather, I leave the warmth of the fire, don wet weather gear and head into the elements. I drop my energy low, slow right down, and stay aware. The animals taught me this.
This evening I watched birds find their beds for the night. It was maybe 20 minutes before sunset and a small flock of sparrows flew to the native trees we planted a few years back. They have grown well, these evergreens, with fullness of leaf. Connected and touching each other, they form a flush and dense cluster of shelter. The sparrows came in small groups of three or four, circling different parts of the evergreen cluster, before flying out again for a short distance. On their return they disappeared silently into the trees without a trace. Completely absorbed into the space of tree and leaf and bird.
That’s how I would like to be in the midst of a storm. A peaceful stillness in the eye. A part of, rather than a separate warrior vainly attempting to subdue a greater force, or a coward hiding in fear in a darkened space. Out in the mix of it all. Listening for the wisdom the weather blows in.
I wrote the poem that follows some time ago. This poem rang fresh and alive again on Wednesday. That’s the wonderful thing about weather – it is cyclical. We always get another chance to come to a better understanding.
TURBULENCE
A strange wind blew in tonight
Warm and undecided
Blowing East then West then East again
She whistled in the frequency of a gentle warning
The sound of a far-off Banshee
Or perhaps a Prophet
She may have travelled further than I think
This strange wind