The Roman goddess, Tempestas, is in charge of sudden storms that come blasting in and then end. We know sudden storms of every kind, but the one I focus on, today, is the sudden emotional storm that may rise, fierce and fraught with chaos, into our lives.
Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, a chite storm shows up leaving you confused, angry, sad, overwhelmed. Trying to see the storm from every angle helps us to make sense of what is happening. Knowing, also, it will end as all storms do.
Some resolve themselves. Some are built up, and multi-dimensional because they happen so closer together. Separate the issues and deal with easiest or most important first.
Some are those that have built up over a longer time and suddenly you hit the wall. You have to tell yourself that this is nothing… you can cope… you are not a victim. Your misery and intolerance are things you CAN and Will take care of.
Some stressors come from your own problem of leaving things to the last minute and then stressing about how little time to get things done. Just work at it in cycles of movement around what needs to be done to conquer what feels like a mountain. I have moved from sewing machine, decorating, doing the diamond painting, and trying to curb worry. I have made it. Everything is ready. Now, I may need to start a January project so that I can stay busy so dark thoughts of worry do not seep in.
The Snow-Storm
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind's masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer's sighs; and, at the gate,
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.
Right now, today, I am jingling with trying to control fear and worry, and cancel it out with some joy and excitement.
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