Welcome to my Lauryn Hill fancast… or as I also like to call it – a day where my musings are free-flowing and not necessarily coherent. Today I’m the nonsensical turtle.
Inter-connectivity/synchronicity are forever telling stories – attempting to dispel illusions, and reveal possibilities. Everything is a story. Stories are everything. Everything is everything.
Or, putting it another way: let’s talk about clouds for a minute.
My interaction/fascination/experience with clouds covers many angles. As a photographer, I appreciate a sort of dream-like quality and/or a sense of depth they can add to any picture I am taking. They absorb/diffuse light, and help to give texture and fill to any background.
Simultaneously, I love getting caught just staring – my mouth partially open, as I think about the physics of how clouds…are. Yes, I’m talking about the actual formations and how different shifts and collisions in temperature and pressure bring about the coalescence of water droplets (or the freezing of said water) as it bonds to dust and dirt – all in the form of billowy, shape-shifting (see my entry on Pareidolia a couple days ago) imagination canvases.
Somewhere in the midst of the formation process, clouds take on a life of their own – sometimes in tight formation…sometimes laughably solitary… They are an art-form unto themselves, whisping and wicking moisture, bending light, changing colors. They are H20 and dust and light. They are almost alive with movement and diversity and shadows and color.
And then don’t even get me started on the evolution of storms, as happy little clouds dance into updrafts and downdrafts and before you know it a supercell has formed, and we are in the presence of one of my most favorite things in the world – a thunderstorm. I love the danger and the power and the almost ‘living’ presence you can sense in the midst of a good storm. But it’s not all violence and mayhem – here, too, you can witness a pattern of sorts within the swirling chaos. There is a story unfolding that brings with it power on magnitudes greater than any destructive force we mere mortals have designed, in our bid to safely destroy the world hundreds of times over, on demand.
But without fail, without compromise – the storm runs it course. It screams and cries and rips up fences and trees and Toyotas, and then the world’s fever breaks, and we feel the pressure change, as the constancy of this natural path dissolves into nothing more than a shared experience, and life for the earth below our feet.
Sometimes clouds are the saviors, bringing life-giving water to a thirsty people and earth. Sometimes clouds are the harbingers of death, ripping away everything in their path. Clouds are stories. Clouds are clouds. Everything is everything.
I’m the nonsensical turtle, and I see stories everywhere.