Like huge freight trains and low flying B52 bombers the storm hurls itself up and over the land here in the wild of Wales. A massive creature it rumbles and shakes the ground. Tucked up inside my yurt I can see nothing but hear all. I sit in the candlelight clenched against it’s onslaught. I wonder if this blast will hit the yurt, or the next, or the one after that. Ah one ripples the canvas, tugs at the bindings, taps like piano fingers behind my head. The elements are only a canvas skin away after all. Most of the storm howls over head, rushing down the hill above, using the bank behind as a launching point, and pours itself along the valley. God skateboarding.
A handful of blasts lift the ‘eye’ in the centre of the ceiling and the two poles which hold it up look fragile. Is it possible the wind could slide a huge hand under the deck the yurt is tied to and lift us right off, spinning me up like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz? Will I wake up in the morning with a yellow brick road outside my door?
My tension screams at me – Go to the farmhouse! Living in a yurt over the winter is a shit idea! Am I safe?
I gave up. I surrendered. Not to the scream of my frightened self but to the storm. Cosy under covers I closed my eyes. I acknowledged my fears. Then I turned my attention outward. I asked why the storm was so loud? Did it want to be heard? Was it screaming for the human savagery in France just a few days ago? Was it howling it’s horror at humanity? I told it I heard it. I thanked it. I began to appreciate its power. I imagined witches of old, twitching fingers like twigs, arms outstretched, channeling its power.
I became an elemental being.
The freight trains tore down other hills farther away as my yurt snuggled against the bank in a siding to the storm.