Dancing With Storms

You always seem so still,
stoic, strong,
an ancient house on the hill,
always there through the storms,

but the truth is,
like an ancient house you were build to move,
to shift in the wind,
the pegs that hold the strong beams
fit lightly, run deep,
and creak in the wind.

That creaking is the sound of your strength,
movement made audible,
no pretense at perfection,
it is your imperfection, and its acceptance,
even the design for it
that helps you stand against the angriest wind.

No, storms will not take you down.
Erosion. Rot. Neglect.
Those are the enemy.
Slow. Invisible day to day,
only they can render you dead or dying.

And so you breath. You write your life,
Scanning for the weakness of rot,
the soft death of neglect
refusing to die that slow death,
preferring to stand, creaking and moving,
always moving,
dancing,
with storms.

About this poem

Old houses and barns are imprecise. Often, there is not a perfect right angle in the place. Floors and ceilings are almost, but not quite level. Look in the beams that hold them together and they are often pegged, with rough gaps around the peg, allowing for some shift during storms or when the ground below settles. This imprecision, and the allowance for it, is part of why so many old homes stills stand, hundreds of years later.

I sometimes think our lives are that way too. Too much perfection makes for a brittle life. Seemingly strong and perfect, but in reality, always close to the breaking point. Having some give in our lives, easy forgiveness, grace, the ability to laugh at our foibles instead of critique them – these let us not just survive, but live.

The picture was taken in a barn in Rupert, Vermont.

Tom