It turns windy as we retire for the evening, and the curtains in the bedroom dance next to the open door and window. Maya, our Yorkie, is not pleased. She has never liked wind. She claims her space at the top corner of our bed, next to where I lay my head. It is farthest she can get away from the rush of the wind.
I read for a time, adjusting my body and the way I hold my book to accommodate her tiny frame in the space that’s usually unoccupied. Then we all settle down to sleep while the fan whirs to further cool the room, and the curtains continue to dance.
I wake often in the night. Sometimes she’s asleep, many more times she’s sitting upright as if keeping watch. I reach out and stroke her fur. It’s okay, all is well, I say with my touch. I wonder if she will be tired in the morning after a night spent on high alert over something she has no control.
And, oh! There it is: a picture for me. Too often I do the same thing. Be still, all is well, the Divine whisper drowned out by the wind of my uncertainty. I don’t rest, I grow weary, but I could have just slept through the storm.
