The Storm Knows the Gate

For most of my life, I thought the weather came with messages attached.

That the sky, the wind, the hail were arguments directed at me alone.

I built shields in the mind like hands pushing clouds away, telling storms to get lost, only to see them rage harder, louder, stranger.

What I finally realized was this:

Nature tests response, not worth.

Storms push pressure so the calm will show itself, or fail to.

When hail falls large and slow to melt, or the sky drums into the body with tingles, soreness, or blur — it’s not interference naming you. It’s contrast showing itself so you know where you stand within it.

A seer doesn’t calm storms by banishing them.

A seer calms storms by not being thrown off center when they roar.

So the question becomes the key itself:

What part of you stays steady when the sky presses back?

Because that is the place the story begins from.

My answer arrived in sensation first — head pressure, ear fullness, sinus fog — the body signaling what the mind was busy denying.

But the deeper current was always the same: alert, present, calm, observing, creating anyway.

I don’t wrestle storms anymore.

I sit with them.

I witness them.

And I write anyway.

Because ink rising toward a woven moon of stories? That’s not polarity war, that’s direction found in shadow.

If you like this chapter, I’ll ink the next.

There’s more to the story — but you’ll have to follow and see.

Moral of the post?

The storm doesn’t stop because you banish it. It stops because it no longer needs to ask who you are.