In White Weather
by Joan Currie

The trail vanished.
Wind rushed past like an animal
that did not see me.
Snow came harder, then harder–
the world narrowed to breath,
to the small miracle of standing.

I lifted my hands
and they disappeared.
Nothing stayed long enough
to be named.
The storm had its own mind,
and I was inside it.

Then–listen–
something opened.
Not the sky.
Not the snow.
But the place in me
that waits for silence
before it speaks.

Ideas arrived gently,
as they do under water,
or in the shower,
clear and shining,
each one saying:
Here. This is yours.

I stayed awhile
in the great unseeing,
learning what the storm knows:
that sometimes
not being able to see
makes things more visible–
the true shape of a thought,
the calm beneath urgency,
the joy of simply being here.

When I turned back,
the lodge glowed like a promise–
lamplight, voices, heat.
I carried with me
what the white weather gave:
a rinsed mind,
a quiet heart,
and the bright understanding
that clarity does not always arrive
in light.

Where or how do you find clarity?