The Storm Within

A blue sky is a joy to experience, a dark cloud a sight to behold. As far as the eye can see, an eternity of water surges in the Atlantic Ocean. In the vastness, there is a breeze; the breeze - she wants to be bigger and stronger, purposing to raise her wings to draw down gusts, propelling herself toward the shore. 

Back on land, there was an artist who, while sitting in his studio, lost himself in a landscape of hibiscus and zephrlilies and creeping indigo, his daydreams taking him to a most spectacular horizon. Imagining the next voyage to sea, he was drawn to the creatures swimming, forever mesmerized by the bright waters from home to Cuba. Shear fabrics dressed and draped French doors leading to the garden. This is where he spent most of his time when he wasn't out fishing the coast of Key West. 

He longed to capture his memories, painting pictures of past adventures and future desires. Yet, when the skies were clear, like they are now, his mind was empty. Although at peace, he was void of thought and lacked any ability to conjure creativity. Passing the time, he studied his half-crafted illustrations.

His favorite creations were replications of coloful sea life, boats congregating in marinas, and beautiful maritime vistas captured in greens and blues with splashes of gold.

Beams of light peered through the French doors, the afternoon sun creating its own scenic masterpiece, bringing life to dim places on the canvas displays.  

An avalanche of clouds rolled in. He took a sip of what was left of his brandy, wishing there were more. The wind lifted her wings, encouraging the curtains to dance, creating lightscapes across the room. Almost as if on purpose, the wind spun like a ballerina, lifting and tossing any loose items in the studio. Then like a whisper, she bowed for a moment, looking through the open French doors and decided to wait a little while. The sky was still too light. She would wait. 

A warm-up was in order for his glass of brandy. Why didn't he just bring the bottle to the studio? He carried the empty snifter to a liquor cabinet housing a variety of libations. Out of habit, he sampled the aroma prior to pouring, not that it would change anything. Glass in hand and what was left in the bottle, he retreated to the studio once again to try his luck, hoping, if nothing else, the brandy would be his inspiration for new perspectives. A beautiful chaise lounge decorated the corner of the space. He sat and tilted his head to try a different view. When that didn't work, he tried laying on his side to study the canvas displays and even attempted to position himself for an up-side-down vantage of his work. He wondered if this was really the best way to experience a review of the art. Interesting the peculiar ideas people have, thinking they are so perfect in the moment - and sometimes, they are. 

Through the French doors, up-side-down, he caught a glimpse of her, an animation of twisting clouds capturing the colors as the sun fell over the edge of the earth, a momentary kaleidoscope culminating in a swirl of dark black silk. 

The hot, damp air was thick. In the moment, he was overcome with an intense feeling, almost like he was being seduced. Filled with energy, he flipped off the lounge, clumsily fell to the floor, crawling and scampering to his pallet and brushes. Creativity began to overwhelm his body, starting at his feet, filling to his waist, his chest, all the way to the top of his head, like an ink jar replenished to begin a story anew. 

At first, he thought his possession came from the depths of the sea, then proposed to himself that she was in the distance, a beautiful song from the islands. Further considering, he realized she, in fact, lived in the skies. A friend of the moon and handmaid to the stars. While at sea, she opened the heavens, giving him the galaxies so he could navigate the vast waters. Then, at the appropriate time, provided a blanket of darkness, lulling him to sleep with a brush of her breeze against his sun-kissed face. She was gentle at times yet was given to fury without a moment's notice. Just outside the door, his mistress in the wind bellowed and blustered, filling the room and the man with vitality. The wind took in a deep breath, growing with intensity, becoming stronger. The man was overcome with passion. Tearing off his shirt, he rushed to the garden to feel the air on his bare flesh. She wrapped herself around him - a breeze, then wind. Like a gloriously bad habit, she had become his muse.

The incoming storm made him feel alive. He realized his heart belonged to her. Grasping the first brush he could find, he dipped and danced a deep charcoal color across every canvas in the room. One would think him mad. His mind opened with inspiration and intensity and creativity. Stories about the sea and adventures rushed through his body. The thunder applauded his creation. Flashes of lightning illuminated his handiwork. Every undone piece was becoming one giant work of art. He succeeded in capturing the essence of her, his love - the Tempest. She filled the heavens with her wonder. It was her dance in the sky and churning of waters below that brought him joy. He ran back to the garden to stand beneath her. With outstretched arms, as if welcoming an embrace, he stood in the garden and shouted, "My Tempest! My life! My love!"

Tempest now felt complete. The exuberance she expressed during the night turned to a delicious calm in the morning. Within the mind of her young island treasure, she had found her wings. How fulfilling to discover her presence was the key to release his creative spirit.  

Sometimes it takes an extreme moment to realize, and now he knew, as in life and art and love, it is only within the Tempest that a story can be born.