Resting From the Tempest.

The calm after the storm. Is there anything more satisfying, really? I wish I had the words to describe it properly. I remember numerous times while growing up when tornadoes threatened and often ravaged the farm. I strangely liked the whole process; the sirens, the gathering together of everyone you care about, descending into the cave accessed through the basement of the farmhouse with blankets and a battery operated radio, on the way there sneaking a glance out a window at the strangely silent green sky hoping for a glimpse of the notorious funnel cloud. My dad worried about the cattle. My mom worried about her family. All the while I would try to convince my dad to sneak me outside to see and experience just a few seconds of the event. These pleas were always tempting to him and a few times he succumbed until we both became too frightened by a force way bigger and more violent than ourselves and would run for shelter. I know exactly what his face looked like when he sensed that we overstayed our welcome in the presence of the storm. That look is one of the few things in life that makes my heart beat fast. I always envisioned the storm beautiful; a giant confluence of temperatures in the sky. Cold meets hot to create a whole new color uncharacteristic of the 180 degree horizon of the midwest. It was refreshing to see something as large as the midwest sky change so drastically. It was a reminder that everything can and does change.

As we sat in the cave, we listened through the air pipe leading above ground to the symphony occurring outside. I loved those sounds. Everything occurred rapidly and loudly. From alarming silence to total chaos and back to silence again. We would speculate about which roofs were being torn off what buildings and where they might be set back down by the storm. It seems twisted now to write that, but that was our way of participating as time passed in that small, musty, underground space surrounded by decades old canned tomatoes and such.

When all would quiet, we would carefully emerge and assess the damage. Without fail, every storm like this instantly produces a bright, sunny, beautiful day replete with chirping birds. As if nothing happened. The only sign that it wasn't a figment of our collective imaginations was the often scattered corrugated tin in the surrounding fields, sometimes gently residing on top of the corn plants, as if the storm had violently ripped them off and then carefully placed them down in a balancing act, perhaps to demonstrate how it did actually have the ability to be sensitive. For days after, neighbors would come and go, looking for pieces of their own farms that may have done some traveling and spend hours speculating which direction the wind blew from and the exact path of the storm, etc, etc. I liked these days. They were strangely calming.

Our presentation to head NYC planner occurred yesterday morning. It was fun. Completely enjoyable to see all that frenzy of hard work, not unlike a tornado, be summed up in 1/2 hour presentation. To an outsider, the product and process appeared effortless. There was nothing indicative of the several weeks worth of laborious all-nighters, stressful moments, and general hard work on behalf of many people.

I spent today cleaning, organizing, and recycling pounds worth of paper. And generally enjoying the calm after the storm.