The Goddess of The Storm Is My Mother. Where She Goes, I Follow.

Wednesday, July 16, 2014

It's the day of Typhoon Rammasun. I woke up this morning to a power blackout. As a result of our still-unfinished house renovation all of our doors and windows are sliding and glazed, a fantastic preparation for insulation should winter eventually come to the Philippines. Because of this, we had no idea how devastating the wind and rain were outside until the suspended ceiling on our front balcony flew off. We are having that ceiling replaced with Hardiflex boards soonest.

A lot of people, mostly men, were braving the storm in raincoats, apparently on various errands. We'd all been forewarned that the storm would hit the metropolis between 9:00 AM and 12:00 NN. It was 9:30 AM and it looked like the weather would continue to get worse. The clouds were ripe with white persimmons that were already dropping fruits on us. Trees were felled, signs and billboards were strewn about the streets. I discovered that parts of the ceiling on our ground floor started leaking where it had never leaked before. Perhaps houses will always have flaws because people's bodies also do.

I stood on the balcony and watched the trees dashing off novels on the sky as though frantically trying to meet a deadline. Storms, to me, are beautiful. They are expressions of Nature's emotions, except that I abhor it when the streets get flooded and houses get destroyed and human beings and animals perish in the ensuing havoc. The news reports four casualties so far.

The power is back on, evidently, since I am now online. Yet, hours ago, everyone was anxious that their cell phone batteries would get drained. All the candlesticks and emergency lights and saucepans and little tea kettles were taken out from storage, only to be ungratefully cast aside again once the lights went on. After the storm let up, people began to emerge from their hiding places to converge with neighbors and assess any damage that'd been done. They walk about, nervous and restless, like they would after an earthquake or a volcanic eruption.There are cars on the road again Their wheels dashing through the puddles sound like waves crashing on a shore. Some of the compound tenants seem upset that the pathways are littered with fresh twigs and leaves, but I tell them that it's just like hair-fall: the wind brushes the hair of trees so that weak strands fall off for new strands to grow in their place.

The storm is past. We must pick up after it. But, now that it has gone, I can sleep cozily and well again.