The Storm Knows My Name

There are storms outside, and storms inside the mind.

This week, the sky delivered hail shaped like questions—white rectangles with hollow centers, melting hours after they fell.

My sinuses sneezed their protest. My ears blocked the thunder, filtering sound like a horizon wrapped in fog.

But storms, even the strange ones… they don’t ask for permission to pass through.

They linger until we notice them, then move along once we embody the calm that stands beneath them.

I’ve spent years creating in pieces, thinking the elements were testing me, or warning me, or demanding a reply.

What I overlooked was simpler, sharper:

Pressure is not a problem to banish. It is a signal to inhabit.

So here I am. Not anonymous. Not masked.

I ink the world because that is how I steady it. Not redirecting storms, but recognizing the system they answer to.

My name—Lehonani, the cadence of calm winds—carries a quiet moral older than weather:

You are not meant to clear the storm, you are meant to become the eye it respects.

Because once you do?

Even hail melts softer.

Clouds stop arguing louder.

Thunder takes a knee, tips its hat, and says, “Alright then.”

Undeniable moral:

Power isn’t proven by fighting the storm. It’s proven by the storm already knowing who you are without asking twice.