Hope springs a turtle. At the end of a yoga practice that thankfully didn’t kick my butt like the one the week before, just as we settled into the quiet of savasana, the rumbling started. It came from the north, from the Pacific Ocean, picking up the tempo over Puget Sound, rolling down Budd Inlet. It wasn’t the booming marching band of thunderstorms in North Carolina, but the orchestral kettle drum approach. As it grew closer, a ratatatting rain began on the roof. It crescendoed over the building, the rain pounding, the bass drum finally joining the timpani. Inside the Yoga Loft, under my blanket, I am aware only of the sound and of being safe and dry and warm in the dark belly of the earth. I am aware only of being. No questions, no answers.
At the exact moment the teacher begins bringing us back into the awareness of our bodies – gentle movements of fingers and toes – the storm moves off over Capitol Lake, the rumbling becomes a memory and the rain returns to a gentle patter and then ceases.
The vernal equinox was Wednesday – light and dark in perfect balance. The weather was perfectly balanced, too: equal parts of sunny blue skies and rain, sleet, hail, and snow. Sometimes I would like not to have the darkness and the stormy weather, but the balance is necessary – and sometimes the balance is imperfect. It is in the dark that I see what needs to be looked at. In the garden, most of the perennials are still safe and warm in the dark belly of the earth. They will emerge when they are ready; buds will open when it’s time. I will plant when the earth warms and the light returns.
Stay warm, stay dry, stay safe. Remain still. Leave the storm to rage out there. Breathe through the thunder. There are no answers yet. Lent will be over when it’s over.
Easter will come bringing resurrection in its time.