Dirt
It is like a howling hurricane. Its winds tear at me with barbed fingers. They rip my costume to ruins and my defenses swirl away into the unknown. The rain is mixed with stinging shots of hail; it tattoos its angry signature onto my skin and leaves open wounds in its wake. The torrent falls with unstoppable power and the cold rivulets that course down my form insinuate themselves into my veins. I can no longer tell if my heart is pumping life or ice. My limbs are numb with it, my chest heavy — I am frozen, fixed in this spot. My toes grip the earth below and I close my eyes. Salt runs down my face, but no one can tell the difference between it, and the unpolluted rage of the tempest battering me. But I have my own power, and to it I call.
Depression.
It is like a howling hurricane, but I am akin to the mighty oak. Though the tender leaves and the acorns may be torn away from the stolid branches and flung to the far reaches by the gale — those acorns carry life and new leaves will bud afresh in spring. The weak outer bark is stolen leaving the stark white of interior flesh exposed and leaking amber-colored sap, but these scars will fade, and a new and stronger protection will form. But the true source of the oak’s endurance lies elsewhere.
Staunch roots, knuckles raised above the surface, burrow into the soil with a purpose. They spread wide and form a base to hold the proportions of the grand tree upright and keep it resilient enough to fight back. They surround themselves with the earth and the earth welcomes them, cradles them, nourishes them — even as the war for possession of the gnarled trunk with the majestic crown rages above. They are the very foundation of the trees’ survival.
The earth is dark and damp and teeming with life. It is varied and marbled with veins of clay and ever changeable. It sucks down the sheets of rain that fall upon it, draws it into itself, converts it to liquid life. The soil is steadfast even when the floods come. The storm pounds the dirt spread out beneath the sky and transforms it into a clinging mass of mud. The mud coats everything — all the cracks and crevices, all the dark places that don’t feel the gentle touch of warmth on a cloudless day — and conceals itself there. It keeps giving all it has to give until the chaff is washed away. That which remains surrounds the newly exposed roots with infinite patience. It wraps them in a tender embrace and the healing process begins.
Faith is like the rich and nourishing soil. It is what keeps me grounded through the storms. Faith is what welcomes me, cradles me, sustains me. It is my power. Faith keeps me strong enough to withstand all the wrath that the storm offers. It allows me to lift my wet face to the clear blue sky and give thanks for yet another battle won. It allows me to gather the tattered remains of my clothing and begin to stitch them back together, to wash the salt from my face, to bandage the wounds, to prepare for the next encounter. And each time I weather a new storm, my roots sink a little deeper.
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