The wind howls outside my bedroom window. A tree branch, swaying in the wind, raps against the glass, tck tcking in an irregular rhythm. There are voices in that tempest, voices that I can just barely make out. They speak to me of times long past, of errors made and failures endured. I listen to them for a little while, then I turn away as their taunts begin to turn mean. The wind is not my friend.
There is rain with the wind. It comes down at a steep angle, blown sideways by the wind. It smatters against my home. There are voices in the rain, too. They speak of better times, of growth, of progress, of challenges accepted and defeated. It couldn’t be more opposite of the wind, and yet somehow the two co-exist. They are polar opposites of one another. I listen to the rain for a long time.
I speak to the storm, with my candles and incense and favors written on little scraps of paper. I tell the storm my wishes, and I listen as it talks to me. The voices of the wind and the rain blend together to form a wholly new and different voice, the voice of fate, the voice of the gods. I know that voice hears my pleas because it responds to them. It speaks in a dialect unknown to me, but I get the sense that the storm hears me, acknowledges me, and promises to grant my requests.
I go to bed, the storm still raging outside. I know that it has good things in store for me, along with some challenges. I fall asleep knowing that I can face all these things, as ever I have.
