the lake starts off like glass, a calm so perfect you could disappear through the surface into the depths of eternity. maybe that is why the ashanti spirits come to rest here when they've been released from their perfect black bodies, because the lake looks like forever. there are no dugout canoes, no motorized boats or electricity or cars driving around, just water and wind and flourescent pink chickens; simple log planks that float along with fishermen's nets, spirits that float along with sudden storms...
now i am watching the wind transform the still surface into a terrain of rippling ridges, thunder escaping through the clouds as they pour over the surrounding mountains. soon, in the fog, the opposite side of the lake disappears so that the edge becomes a horizon like an accidental atlantic. complex flocks of birds begin hurrying for shelter, sensing the inevitable streams of water that will fall from their uncertain skies-their wings beat with such powerful desperation that they leave a whooping echo in the humid air.
i am standing out here under this palm thatched gazebo, mostly exposed as the waves of rain begin in the east, blowing towards us with an accompanying orchestra of drops: drops of water on water, water on the tin roof and on the soft earth and through the now constant thunder, all thickening and darkening as the intermittent lightning spectacle dances her electric fire through this stormy sky, illuminating the air above the lake. across this sacred space, the spirits start blowing across, flashes of white ghosts in the gusts, escaping their aquatic graveyard and following the force of the wind to the west, towards my wet watchful eyes.
these ghosts: they are arriving-awakening some old ashanti anger. they begin to dissolve on the shore, rematerialzing in a violent force of upheaval, lifting trees from the ground like it is easy and hurling them towards us. through all the storming sounds, i hear the panicked shuffle of the others as they begin running through this impossibly flooded land, toward the nearby hut for shelter. and there i am, paralyzed and magnetized by the magnifiscience of this monsoon, suddenly alone and awkwardly exposed, in this terrifying darkness broken by the sky's momentary flashes: it is just enough- enough to illuminate the tree that is two feet from my own as it gets uprooted and tossed onto the bungalow behind me. enough to see the hammock that i was sitting in moments ago fly away to the sky; the plate that i had just finished eating off of get consumed by the instant forces of this earth. i am watching it all with an inappropriate sense of calm, humbled and in absolute awe as i witness this alive planet reclaiming her raging skies, exercising her powers and exorcising her demons.
through the sheets of rain i can see now- the bungalow where everyone else ran for shelter has fallen: the roof has blown away and all the bricks are broken and crumbling into the remains of the building. everything is destroyed, including the bodies of three other villagers who are driven on the edge of the storm to the nearest (100km away) hospital. they are okay now, and i am okay always, but i am wondering: how is it that my angels found me here? freezing me in admiration to save my simple frame from being buried by branches and bricks and boats and lawn chairs....
goddess bless.
