Storms, Giving and Taking

May 29, 2026

It is just starting to rain again, a few scattered drops in full sunshine, a few ripples in the birdbath. Indoors, you would never know.

Ranchos de Taos is in extreme drought again, but the past few days have been rainy. Finally, the bone-dry soil is moist enough to accept water into it. At first, every drop ran off or beaded up. Whatever you are thirsty for, you can only take a little at first, making ready to accept the swell.

Last night’s storm was different, no gentle thing, raging through the mountains in the dark night, waking me and many others with freight-train wind. I stumbled through the house closing windows, then tucked back into bed, pulled a cat close, and tried to sleep again.

Some rain came with that wind, and any rain is welcome. The morning air is washed and still. Surprised, I see the little patio greenhouse, which has no foundation, standing peacefully exactly as I left it. Each cushion is still properly on its outdoor chair. But in one spot a chicken wire bean support that had been tethered to the soil with six anchors is tangled in an old tarp a long way from where they’re supposed to be.

There’s no accounting for a windstorm in a cloud-darkened almost-full-moon night. It chooses what to take and what to leave.

In Santa Fe gardens were shredded by the late May hail. At least we missed that. In the still morning, birds come in waves to the feeder - the feeder on an unanchored stand, unmoved by the fickle wind.

The neighbor’s tree was less lucky. It has always leaned hard over the acequia, reaching for light. Now, though, the trunk is split in a full foot of jagged, diagonal broken-ness. The tree has still not fallen. Its neighbor holds it steady. How long can that thin trunk, already a leaner itself, hold the double weight? How many of us have known that feeling, determined to save what and who we can, bending further and further, tears like rain in our eyes?

My neighbor loves to cut things down. Now, though, the broken tree is both dead and alive, a bridge between realms. It cannot survive this. It holds on anyway.

A shower of small broken branches makes a pattern on my gardens and path. Read I Ching in it, if you will.

I pick up the branches, sorting carefully. These, short with outspread twigs and tips that grown wide are bush bean supports. Bigger ones for pole beans, but first a little sculpture-doodle along the garden fence. Tiny bits for kindling.

I have plenty of plant supports now, between these branches and the chamisa trimmed last fall. The storm gave to me, rain and more, and took life from the tree. Not so far away, sheds were lifted and flew into fences. There is no accounting. The storm gives and takes, leaving stillness and a new order after.

Years ago, in another place, a mulberry tree fell by my house in just such a storm. Some roots held firm, while others flew in the air as the tree crashed to ground. Until someone came to cut it, it was alive and dead, too. I cut a branch from it to craft my rune set, from this tree caught in a moment outside of time.

The runes were cut in order from the branch, in whatever shape they came - some more round, some oval, some with tiny stubs of twigs along the sides. They were cut with a pruning saw, all that came to hand at the time. I left the bark on. The Futhark rune shapes were cut into the wood with an old lino-cut gauge I had, a tool ruined in the process. It slipped once into my left index finger, cutting deep and leaving a scar. I swear, I didn’t bleed on the runes on purpose. I did darken the cut rune shapes, but only with pencil, before dipping the whole lot in warm beeswax. They cooled and were rubbed down and have served well.

Storm damage is easy to see, it cries out its loss. If I know what I need, I will also notice when the storm gives - rain, a plant support, kindling, a set of runes born between worlds. May we never miss a storm blessing when it comes.