When the Storm Clears

You know the poem.
You know the storm.

It comes sweeping through the Guest House, unsettling in its work of clearing out the old. It can feel severe. Wrenching. Always a little sad.

As I begin looking for work again — circling back to the kind of work I did to survive as a single mother in my twenties — my comparing, emotional child climbs into my lap.

She can’t help it.

She’s been around the world and back with me.
She’s moved mountains.
She’s built empires.
We’ve watched many of my deepest imaginings come true.

And now?

Now there is a different wish.

A wish to be simple.
Clear.
Common-sense.
Uncommon-sense friendly.
Minimalist.
To stay in my own business.
To rescue no one — except myself.

So we design the simple business card.

We post the email-only notice offering work I’m good at — work that requires none of my vast range of skills in repairing and restoring people after trauma.

That nervous system — the hyper-vigilant fixer, the one who can hold catastrophe and still perform — is not the one I want to walk out of this life with.

I want my optimal window-of-tolerance nervous system.

She is calm and ready.

I love her.

She protects me.
She alerts me.
And when I listen, she brings me peace and freedom.

She is my warrior for good.

I admire her level focus on what I actually want.