“And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what the storm’s all about.” 

Haruki Murakami

The first time I read this quote, it stuck. It talked about life’s travails and survivals, something that my soul understood and acquiesced with—so I saved it for keeps, hoping to one day write about it. About a week later, I am going through my list of quotes again, and I come across it. I read it a first, second and third time—with a nod and a smile. The fourth time over, my eyes are watering… as if only then do I begin to realize that the ‘storm’ is not the once-in-a-while-travails that strike, or the usual phases we pass through when life happens; but every moment of every day when something doesn’t turn out as planned, or when we are hit in the face by some unexpected blow—the damned traffic on your way to your first job interview, the untimely sickness that barges in just on the eve of an over-planned holiday, the lay-off, the divorce, the abusive conductor, the thieving colleague at work, the arrogant no-can-do boss, the nagging wife, the abusive partner, the irresponsible father, the rejection letters, the loss of a most cherished thing or a loved one.

These are the storms of life–

that strike without warning, and brew us into varying shades of ourselves in no time. And we bend, and bend, and bend, until we almost break over from weariness… we bleach our eyes with tears, our tongues with prayers—then we hope and wait, and cry and pray some more. In the end, when the storm clears, regardless of the color of the sky—golden, or burnt orange, or blue, or black; in the end when the storm clears, and our breaths announce the birth of a new beginning, what we have lost will no longer matter as what we have gained—a lesson about the fickleness of life, an insight into what magic we are made of, and importantly, a chance to know and become a little more of who we are meant to be. We may not quickly know it, the epiphany may take a while to emerge, but slowly and surely—it will; so that while we may think that the storm rendered us blind, soon, we realize that in truth—it only covered our eyes in order to reveal the brilliant gift of renaissance.


PS: It has been a long pass-over to the new year for me. I have had to sit myself down, time and time again– to figure out what writing goals I should have for 2017, but that process has not necessarily been productive. So, here I am, saying my happy new year a little too late, and intent on being patient with myself as I go through my writing journey this year, and more– hoping that you will be patient with me too. Because.

Thank you for always.


© The Short Black Girl, 2017.


3 thoughts on “Renaissance.

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