🌬️ When the Storm Heard Me

 

Last night, I remembered myself.

I reached for the old tools—the ones wrapped in dust and defiance,
Pulled from deep drawers and deeper memory—
A flattened crystal, mined from Arkansas veins
Pressed by time, by silence, by stories unsaid.

I curled it in my palm like a promise,
And the dream came back again—
That old freezing script of rejection,
Where I wait in the snow
For a truck that always smells like fear.

But I said no this time.
I told the dream, You don’t get to end it like that.
And I went back in.

I returned not to be rescued,
But to rewrite.
To speak aloud in the language of will and wonder:
I am not what they abandoned. I am what they couldn’t contain.

And then—
The wind answered.

No storm had been forecast.
But one came anyway.
Because I spoke.

A tree limb—left to rot above my sanctuary—
Finally cracked.
The very one they refused to remove.
The one they ignored when I said it was dangerous.
The one hanging like a curse of neglect.

It shattered.

Splintered wood, snapped history, a clean break.
And my space?
Untouched. Again.

---

Earlier that day, a single cicada sang for the first time this year.
A resurrection hum.
I heard it. And I thanked it with my whole heart.

---

I used to hide these moments.
Swallow the magic.
Dismiss the signs before anyone else could.

Because if I said, “The storm came because I opened my heart,”
They’d call me crazy.

But if I said nothing—
They’d still look at me sideways
When strange things started to happen after I cried.

So I’ll say it now,
For me.
For the record.
For anyone else who walks with storms as sisters:

✨ I believe in my own magic.
✨ I authenticate myself.
✨ The Earth moves with me—not against me.
✨ And my voice is weather.

Let the old branches fall.
Let the cicadas rise.
Let no one else tell me what my resonance means.

Because I see it now—
And I see me.
And so it is.