It stormed at my house yesterday. Twice. The second time harder than the first. The rain was horizontal, flying along on the wind. There was a veritable river running down the dog run. Little ripples churned across the surface. The trees were shaking. It went on seemingly forever, but that’s how storms feel, never ending. But they do, and this did.

This morning, the air is fresh and clear. Off in the distance I can see remnants of the evening fog hanging over the trees. The newly tilled dirt in the garden is soaked, and there’s a forest of mushrooms beneath the Eve’s Necklace. The driveway is freshly cut by the running water and decorated with little fans of debris. It has the look of a dry streambed.

Unfortunately, it was a local storm, and isn’t that just like life. We carry our troubles around with us, and no one knows how hard the winds blow, or the trees fall. And if a visitor were to stop by this morning, nothing would look out of place. And there would be nothing to share about the travails of yesterday because for one it would have been real and for the other only imagined. And that’s the great divide for all manner of things in life.