At first, I didn’t think it wise to paint a room in one’s dwelling with a color named Approaching Storm, who wants that turmoil in their nest? Beguiled by the hue a change of thought erupted, where else to approach a storm than in the galley of it all. In the heart of the nest, I am reminded even in the eye of the storm that I am the sea not the whirlpool. The sea within the sea. I can handle a little whirling. The sea won’t set off anywhere. She spreads and contracts, she sweeps and roars and rolls but there always she remains expanding but never leaving, just being. There aren’t any steps from you to you, only breaths deep, lungsful of air. Don’t reach for it out there, never will you attain peace slithering in fear.
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