I imagined my shelter was a little open hut in the deep and wild woods of the Pacific Northwest, and it was protecting me from a downpour. The idea of the shelter is that it is bigger than you, reliable (always there) and safe (will keep you protected). My little shelter was propped up again a giant cedar.
I remember when I was a kid I loved thunderstorms when I lived in Chicago. I stand and look out my window and watch it pour. In St. Louis, I was stand on the porch. I loved the noise, the clean smell of the air. I loved the heat rising. I loved seeing the power of nature, lashing out, then calming.
It was also easier to love the storm while I was safely protected from it. The storm wasn't getting me wet--unless I intentionally went out in it. I was close enough, but not directly involved or impacted.
I am learning to build my own emotional shelter, to protect me from the drama and trials of life. When I build my shelter and protect myself, I can see the beauty in things where I otherwise might be afraid.
I think about parenthood and wonder how I have served as a shelter to people in my life, especially my children. The goal wasn't to protect from all of the storms, but to teach them how to make their own shelter to protect themselves, teaching them by example. I am not sure I did a good job of that when they were younger. I didn't even know how to make a shelter for myself.
I am learning.
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