As far back as I can remember, I have been transfixed by severe weather, specifically thunderstorms and hurricanes. My childhood home included a sunroom, where three sides of transparent glass encased a room filled with floral patterned furniture and a large ceiling fan. Many afternoons were spent in that space, a juxtaposition of calm and serenity as thunder boomed and lightning lit the sky beyond the sunroom walls.
My first trip to Disney World as a teenager ended early due to Hurricane Elena‘s arrival in Orlando, Florida. Years later, I would find myself newly married, living almost 1,000 miles away from friends and family, forced to evacuate my two-bedroom apartment along the Gulf Coast of Florida as Hurricane Alberto (downgraded to Tropical Storm Alberto right before landfall) made its way onshore. The next year, another mandatory evacuation forced me all the way to Georgia, seeking shelter hundreds of miles from our Air Force base housing, as Hurricane Opal, a category 4 storm, crushed the landscape of our coastal town.
Ten years later, my first child would share the name of one of the most catastrophic hurricanes to hit the United States. I recently discovered a home video where I had recorded a Weather Channel broadcast of Hurricane Katrina approaching New Orleans, LA and I still have the newspaper that declared New Orleans spared from severe damage the morning after, just hours before the levees broke and flooded the city.
Those closest to me know that I still have “Take a selfie with Jim Cantore” on my bucket list. It’s also no surprise that I was drawn to the story of Jet Stream Jax, an eight-year-old storm chaser from Houston, TX who raised funds to rebuild playgrounds following Hurricane Harvey (and spotlighted in Chapter 3 of my book, A Passion for Kindness.)
I am no stranger to the devastation a hurricane can bring. I have sifted through muck and mire to help others find something, anything, of value left behind. I have watched, helpless, as all my belongings were shoveled out of a storage unit along the New River during my college days, the result of flooded riverbanks from a severe storm. I even attended my own baby shower in 95 degree heat with limited water when Hurricane Isabel left my hometown without electricity for more than a week.
Notice the newspaper headline near my chair.
My Grandma Payne used to joke that I brought rainy days wherever I went. Our yearly family picnics in the mountains are preserved with snapshots of windshield wipers, rain-soaked views of mountains, and a kaleidoscope of umbrellas covering soggy fried chicken and biscuits. Even the Virginia State Fair, which includes my birthday week, gets rained out year after year. My first week living in Las Vegas resulted in more than four inches of rain – a record for the desert that time of year.
And yet, I find my greatest peace in the midst of the storm.
There is a line from the musical, Hamilton, that makes my heart skip a beat each time I hear it. “In the eye of the hurricane, there is quiet… for just a moment… a yellow sky.” If you’ve ever seen the play or the movie on Disney+, you might remember this pivotal scene as Alexander Hamilton is crushed by his own demise, the storm of his personal choices and circumstance swirling around him when suddenly everything stops.
Time freezes.
Movements halt.
But the ground is not still. It continues to circle around, even as everything is paused for the moment. People and objects begin to slowly swirl in their silence as the audience is catapulted right inside the middle of the storm.
This is where my life is right now.
I am standing in the eye of the hurricane.
The past eight weeks have been nothing short of a hurricane in my world. My work as a technology integrator and instructional coach has swept me away with rain bands of responsibilities, flooded by requests for support and success.
I have tried to seek shelter from the storm, but right when I reach the line of safety, another gust of wind knocks me off my feet, unbalanced, as I am pulled back into the chaos. I am sacrificing family time for timelines of others, a tactic of survival, not sustainability.
It’s also birthday season in my world, with all three of my children, myself, and several nieces, nephews, and extended family celebrating birthdays each week from the end of August to the end of October (with a few more scattered in November.) This is always a busy time, as my priority for celebrating loved ones takes center stage. This year, however, the stage is an eye wall of unbalanced metrics, with the eye of the hurricane shrinking smaller in the midst.
But I made it to the middle.
I am standing in the eye.
There is silence.
Stability.
Security.
Even if only for a moment.
I take a breath.
I stop and stand in awe of the world around me.
I look to the sky for the sliver of sunlight that streams through the clouds.
I am reminded of my purpose.
My passion.
My perspective.
My value.
And as the winds start to shift with the weight of elections, COVID concerns, holiday seasons, and racial divides, I am reminded that no storm lasts forever.
I can seek shelter if needed.
I can battle the winds that remain.
I can survive the rising water with my head held high.
I can.
I can.
I can.
And you can, too.
